An Elysian Piece
by poetzproblem
Summary: For tonight I am Hades. And you will be my Persephone...at least until the music ends. A journey out of darkness. EC
1. Masquerade

**Summary: **_For tonight I am Hades. And you will be my Persephone…at least until the music ends_.

**Setting: **Andrew Lloyd Webber Version (more movie than stage) with just a dash of Kay, and with all due credit to Leroux.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters, I just borrow them to play with…entirely without profit.

**Author's Note:** Two years of writer's block later…

I am lamenting the decided lack of (high) quality period E/C in recent months. Unfortunately, this fiction probably won't alleviate that, but at least it got me writing again.

I am fully aware that, historically, the Carnival celebrations in Venice began to decline at the end of the 18th Century, and were not revived until about the mid 20th Century. However, the beautiful thing about fiction is that it doesn't have to conform to fact, but can lead us into the beautiful realm of _what if…_

Rated **M** for the final two chapters…forewarned is forearmed.

Enjoy.

* * *

**_  
An Elysian Piece_**

**  
Masquerade**

_1875  
__Venice, Italy  
__iL Carnevale di Venezia  
_

She was a goddess.

That was all he could think as his eyes feasted upon her from across the piazza. All around them, the Venetian carnival raged with laughter and music. A sea of masked faces in countless vivid colors separated him from her, bodies twirling about in dance, and yet the whirlwind faded into a peculiar calm as all his energy focused onto her.

She was dressed in a gown of the deepest emerald trimmed in gold tulle. The velvet bodice lovingly molded her curves and narrowed to a point at her slender waist. The full skirt flared at her hips and ended just above a white underskirt that peeked out from beneath. The sleeves of the dress dropped off pale shoulders, and her dark curls were left loose to coil alluringly around her face and over her back. She wore a simple gold Columbina mask that covered her eyes and curved up into winged points at her forehead.

And she was alone.

He had watched a parade of eager young men ask her to dance, only to be sent away with a firm shake of her head. To approach her now was a fool's errand, he knew, but he could not resist. He could never resist.

Purposeful strides moved him effortlessly though the waves of boisterous revelers until he was but a few feet away. Her perfume filled his senses until he thought himself drunk on her sweetness. She seemed at first not to notice his presence beside her, but then some otherworldly frisson passed over her and her eyes fluttered beneath her mask.

Drawing a breath, he finally spoke, the perfect Italian carrying just the faintest trace of a divergent accent. "Are you not dancing, Signorina?"

The smooth tenor of his voice fully captured her attention, and she finally turned to look upon her admirer. Her dark gaze unerringly found his and the moment hung suspended between them as time itself seemed to alter and grow still. Had she been able to look away from his hypnotic green-blue eyes, she would have seen that he was dressed all in black, from the tips of his boots to the bolero jacket and cape. An elaborate sword hung at his side; the belt buckle adorned with a silver skull. A black mask covered the upper half of his face, leaving only his full lower lip and strong jaw exposed.

His inviting mouth curved upward in amusement at her prolonged silence, and a blush colored her cheeks as she finally answered his question with a whispered, "No."

One leather clad hand extended toward her. "Will you do me the honor?"

Her only answer was to slowly place her delicate hand onto his.

xXx

He silently led her into the heart of the dancing couples before sweeping her into a graceful waltz. Their bodies flowed seamlessly together, and once again, she could not seem to look away from the hypnotic green-blue eyes that touched a long silent chord deep within her. The overwhelming sense of familiarity that descended upon her was inescapable, and she finally found her voice.

"Do I know you?" It was telling that she had forsaken her adopted Italian dialect and slipped into her native French.

He smiled mischievously and responded in kind. "Perhaps yes, perhaps no. To tell you would spoil the pleasure of the masquerade. For tonight I am Hades. And you will be my Persephone…at least until the music ends."

Her steps faltered and she nearly stumbled over her own feet. The mythos he had chosen cut far too close to the bone. Hades, king of the underworld…what little doubt she had still harbored vanished in a puff of smoke. The curve of his sensuous lip and the fiery glitter of his gemstone eyes swam in her vision until she was transported back in time to a distant stage.

It was _him_.

Hardly daring to breath, she waited for her traitorous body to tremble with remembered terror. It was an entirely different emotion that fought its way to the surface, and a nervous laugh escaped her unbidden.

His eyes narrowed slightly, "You are amused?"

She did not shy away from his dark intensity, but called upon the strength she had molded from the ashes of her broken dreams. "I was only wondering if you plan to kidnap me and make me your bride."

It was his turn to falter, clearly shaken from her unexpected show of steel. His hesitation was brief, however, and in the blink of an eye his entire aura became as unreadable as the mask he wore. "I would never presume. A beautiful woman, such as you are, must certainly be spoken for."

The venom in his tone was unmistakable. Once, she would have recoiled from such a show of temper, but she had learned from painful experience that there was no peace to be found in retreat.

Her chin tilted up defiantly, "I am not."

"I find that difficult to believe."

She could feel the tension radiating from his powerful form, though the graceful slide of their dance continued uninterrupted. She searched his eyes as she confessed, "I was engaged once several years ago, but it was broken."

She felt the illusion he had wrapped around himself give way, and his affected accent slipped. "Why?"

A wry smile curved her lips. "It was…a youthful infatuation. We were childhood sweethearts who met once again, surrounded by memories and romance, and drama and danger. But before long it became all too clear that our attachment could not sustain a lifetime. We were too different."

"I am…sorry." And he actually managed to sound sincere.

"You shouldn't be. It was all for the best." She did not admit the personal hell she had been forced to walk through in order to arrive at that realization. She likely never would.

His silent contemplation of her admission unnerved her more than a little. An uncomfortable awareness descended on her then, and the fear that had been blessedly absent suddenly seized her. "And you , m'sieur? Are you spoken for?"

He laughed ruefully, "I am destined to remain a…bachelor."

She was certain that he'd begun to say _alone_, and the thought of that made her throat tighten with sadness. She knew that were she to continue this verbal duel with him, there would be no turning back.

Her dark eyes danced with unspoken promises as she said, "I think not. I am certain there is at least one woman who will gladly claim you for her own. Perhaps you have met her already, and she is even now plotting how to lure you back to her, ensnare you in her sweet trap so that you can never leave her again."

He was taken aback for a moment, but recovered with an enigmatic smile. "I am a very difficult man to trap."

She grinned back in earnest. "Perhaps you only need the proper bait."

His good humor faded, and his smile turned sad around the edges. "The hook was baited long ago. She had my heart on a string, but she did not want it." He looked away, fixating on a spot just over her shoulder. "She did not want me."

Her hand came up to his masked face, and ignoring his involuntary flinch, she forcefully drew his gaze back to hers.

"She was fool. A frightened, selfish child who did not deserve your love. She knows now just what she lost, and regrets her choice. Every moment of every day."

They stood unmoving amidst the maelstrom. The music faded into silence around them, and neither could remain hidden behind the masks they still wore.

His entire countenance betrayed his longing, and his eyes fell closed as he whispered, "Oh, Christine…"

A soft smile transformed her words into a caress. "I thought I would never again hear my name said in just such a way. Even though I have heard your voice every night in my dreams. Erik…"

His name on her lips seemed to wake him from his placid dream. He pulled her closer in a burst of passion, and for one heart-stopping moment, Christine was certain he meant to claim her right there. His lips hovered scant inches from hers, so close she could nearly taste the spicy flavor of his kiss, but he failed to close that final distance between them. Instead, he released her and stepped back, his expression once again blending coldly into his mask.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle. I fear I have taken up far too much of your time."

He offered a stiff bow, and quickly spun away with a sweep of his cape to disappear into the crowd. She stood staring after him in confusion, her shattering heart the only evidence that the encounter had been real.

That, and the glittering, gaudy blue diamond that Erik had pressed into her palm.

Christine stared down at the ring in despair, a single tear escaping from beneath her mask to splash against the symbol of her betrayal. They had come full circle.

All around her, the dance continued.

* * *

**A/N: **Was a potential one-shot, but soon blossomed into a prologue to a longer E/C. 


	2. Hide Your Face

**Hide Your Face  
**

_Hotel Hostaria  
__Venice_

The force of the carved wooden door slamming shut on its hinges was enough to send tiny flakes of painted plaster fluttering into the air. Erik was unconcerned. The hotel was all but deserted; every soul still engaging in merriment on the streets outside. Seething with the rage he had believed purged from his existence, he tore the mask from his face and threw it to the bed, only to turn and stare at his twisted visage in the mirror.

_Remember what you are. _

No illusion he could create would ever erase the horror of his face. Nor the horror of his past. The distorted flesh before him was more than reason enough to never have sought her out again. Never allow himself the dream that he might be permitted to have a normal existence. Oh, he had come so very close…clawed his way out of hell and struggled to rebuild the shards of his ill begotten life into some semblance of peace. In one night, he had destroyed it all; there would be no closure to the wounds that Christine Daaé had inflicted upon his black heart.

Three years.

It had been three years since the ominous night that she had abandoned him to his well deserved fate, wrapped firmly in the arms of her handsome young lover.

Yet it could have been only yesterday…

xXx

_1872  
__Paris, France  
__Hours after the tragic premiere of **Don Juan Triumphante **_

The Persian stood staring helplessly at the spires of smoke twirling upward from the smoldering Parisian opera house. He had arrived amidst the pandemonium, and known without asking what, or rather _who_, was at fault. He had been hours too late.

With no little effort, he managed to find the ballet mistress, who stood clinging to her ashen daughter with teary eyes. A look was exchanged between the two, and the woman nodded. She pried something wrapped in cloth from her daughter's trembling hands and silently handed it to the Persian. He took it without comment, and pushed the singed material aside to see the scrap of leather beneath.

"The little Daaé?"

Madame Antoinette Giry sighed, "Safe in the care of the Vicomte de Chagny."

The Persian nodded in understanding. "Thank you, Madame."

He spent hours watching the spectacle, lurking in the shadows near the fire brigade and police as he listened for any word of the Phantom. It was nearly morning by the time he let himself into the little flat he kept on the Rue Canal. The door had barely closed with a quiet click behind him before he felt the catgut tightening around his throat. He dropped his bags as his fingers flew to the Punjab lasso around his neck, and he managed to choke out, "Erik!"

The pressure was suddenly gone, and the Persian collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. Dust covered shoes appeared before his blurred eyes, and shaking hands reached down to help him. "Daroga, you are too late."

xXx

Nadir took the offered hand and pulled himself up on unsteady legs. "What have you done, Erik?"

The censure in the Persian's voice was not unexpected. Nadir Kahn had been a thorn in Erik's side from the moment he had met the man years ago during his brief attempt at life away from the opera house. His very own walking, talking conscience.

Erik was in no mood for lectures. His limbs felt like lead and his eyes stung from dried tears and grit. He made no comment, but collapsed back against the darkened corner he had sought refuge in after 'letting himself in' to the Daroga's flat, wishing again that his heart would simply stop beating so that this pain might finally end.

The Persian stared at him through hooded eyes, taking in his stained, wet clothes, and unkempt appearance. Suddenly realizing he was without his mask, Erik quickly covered his deformity and turned his face further into the darkness cast about the room.

Nadir huffed indignantly, "Really Erik, you have no need to hide from me. I am fully aware of what you keep hidden beneath your mask."

"A fact I would rather forget," he snapped, the memories of his time in Persia not ones he wished to ever recall.

Nadir shook his head and reached down into one of his dropped bags. Pulling out the wrapped mask, he held it out plaintively, "Here…take it if you feel you must."

Erik snatched it away with lightening speed, placing it on his face, his right hand resting possessively over the leather for a moment. The weight of it was soothing . "How?" he asked roughly.

"Apparently, the little Giry rescued it from the opera house."

Erik scoffed, "Her curiosity will land her in trouble one day, I suspect."

Nadir threw open the curtains, allowing the rising sun to flood the room in golden light. Erik grimaced, shielding his face from the harsh brightness. Nadir paid the action no mind, pouring himself a brandy and settling onto the settee in the living room. He took a long drink, heedless of the early hour, before turning dark studious eyes on Erik. "Now…tell me everything."

_Everything?_

Erik stared blindly at the Daroga, his mind swirling with _everything_…from the first moment he had seen Christine Daaé, her curls in tangles, dress dirty and wrinkled as she knelt sobbing for her father on the floor of the chapel, to the moment she stood in much the same state pleading for her lover's life.

He had _given_ her _everything_…all of his knowledge, his time, his music. All for her, and she had thrown it all back in his face as though it was meaningless. He wanted to hate her for it…blame her for _everything..._but hating her was even more impossible than loving her had been.

_Christine_ had been his _everything_.

Without her, there was _nothing_.

xXx

Somewhere between recounting the events of his opera and the disaster beneath the fifth cellar, Erik collapsed into a weeping mess of agony, guilt and regret. In light of such a display, Nadir could hardly be expected to hold onto his righteous indignation at the lengths to which Erik had gone to win his young pupil. He had known for more than a year now of Erik's growing feelings for Christine Daaé. Each time he had visited Paris, he bore witness to the ever increasing obsession his friend had for the young soprano. Yet his misgivings were tempered somewhat by the genuine affection Erik had had for the girl, and her seeming affection for him…or rather, for her Angel of Music.

The man that Nadir had first met in Persia had already been broken by life. Erik had been no more than a child when he'd been violently taught that he was different, and his flesh bore the marks of those lessons. He had hidden away from the rest of the world for years, watching those around him take the life he so coveted for granted, until he had ventured out into the world again, trusting no one save himself.

By the time the young Frenchman had arrived in the east, painful experience had taught him that (so-called) humanity at large did not view him as a man, and so, his logic deduced that he could exist outside the laws of man. Yet there had been something truly beautiful in his soul, despite the darkness that clearly existed within him. His spirit gloried in all things of beauty: art, architecture, music, literature. Nadir had never met a man so full of the potential for greatness. Unfortunately, the Shah had seen the equal potential for death and destruction, and taken full advantage.

Nadir, himself, had been a party to the horrors Erik had endured, and committed, in Persia, so he could not condemn the man for sins he shared equally. Yet the man who returned to Paris was far more dangerous than the boy who had left with hopeful naivety that he might still find a place in the world to accept him. Knowing the full extent of the evil that Erik was capable of, Nadir had followed, and been present for the birth of the opera ghost. Christine Daaé's arrival into the midst of that seemed to soften Erik, and the Persian had prayed, more than believed, that she could somehow soothe his friend's ravaged soul. Erik had seemed to see a reflection of himself in the child, lost and alone, and had the power to lift her from the loneliness she'd endured while easing his own in the process.

Nadir had not intervened, and so he was as much at fault for the tragedy as anyone. He should never have left Paris last fall, but he had thought it safe enough to go. Erik had been so pleased with Christine's progress in her lessons, and talked endlessly of his desire to arrange an opportunity for her to be heard. It had all seemed innocent enough at the time. When the letter detailing the arrival of the Vicomte de Chagny had finally caught up to Nadir in Prussia, he had made immediate arrangements to return to Paris, but by then it had already been too late to stop the events that had been set into motion.

Erik had succumbed to the very blackest evil that lurked within him. He had lost what little peace he had managed to find, and destroyed all that he had worked for. Yet there was some little flicker of light still alive in him. He had allowed Christine to go free, wishing for her happiness even as his heart ached for her loss.

Nadir would not allow Erik to fall back into the abyss. "Come, my friend," he said quietly, "I fear we must take our leave of this place."

Erik raised reddened eyes to Nadir. "And go where, Daroga? Where can I go? I have nothing…no reason to live."

Nadir shook his head sharply, growling, "Yet live you do…and will go on doing if I have any say in it."

"Why?"

"_Allah_ only knows why," sighed the Persian, "but you are my mission in life, Erik, and I do not accept failure."

A bitter laugh escaped Erik. "Only _I_ would be cursed with a martyr for my solitary friend."

"Hardly a martyr," Nadir said with a small grin. "If I leave you in Paris to be hanged, who will I have to best me at chess, hmm?"

xXx

By nightfall, Nadir had forced a cloaked Erik into a coach and set out for Compiègne, where Erik owned a small chateau. The former opera ghost grew more and more restless the closer they came to the village, and Nadir eyed him cautiously, as if he sensed himself confined with a cobra ready to strike. Perhaps he was.

The chateau radiated warmth, surrounded as it was by meticulously cared for rose bushes and a shady little grove off to one side. Nadir's expression of surprise was almost comical, and Erik nearly smiled…knowing the dwelling appeared quite out of the Phantom's character. The Daroga had been the one to purchase this property for him, but Erik knew the Persian had not seen the grounds since then. Erik himself had been here only once, long enough to provide carefully detailed instructions to the gardener and housekeeper, and now he dreaded setting foot inside.

A look of understanding descended upon Nadir's face as soon as he crossed the threshold and absorbed the atmosphere of the house. This was where Erik had intended to bring Christine as his bride. Every facet was designed to please her. Erik felt himself being drawn further inside; his eyes helplessly feasting on the perfect execution of his instructions, from the muted cream interior walls to the ornately carved mantles with their patterns of intricate roses. He stopped in the parlor in front of the framed portrait of a single ballerina that he had lovingly painted in the image of his angel. His vision began to blacken around the edges, and he felt himself sinking to his knees as the room swam before him.

"Oh, Christine," he wept.

So lost in his grief, he did not even notice Nadir rush to his side.

Over the next several days, Erik retreated further into himself, remaining in a state of near catatonia, but that damned Persian simply would not allow him to die. On the fifth day, Nadir all but dragged Erik to the tub and tossed him in, fully clothed and with mask on. "I cannot stomach your smell any longer, my friend," he'd said.

After that, Erik gradually, painfully, began to return to the living world. The papers all proclaimed the mysterious Phantom of the Opera was presumed dead. The Opera Populáire would be rebuilt, _even better than before_, promised Andre and Firmin. Christine Daaé had effectively disappeared, and would likely not return to the Paris stage. An imminent wedding to the Vicomte de Chagny was strongly hinted at. Erik's mind reeled with the information, and he had to fight the burning need to seek out the couple and take Christine for himself.

He recognized this instinct as wrong, and self destructive, but he could not free his heart from her viscous grasp, and so wanted to possess her as she possessed him. When these thoughts assaulted him, he took out the ring she had pressed into his palm and replayed every horrible moment of that final confrontation. What did she mean by giving him such a token? Why had she not simply left with the boy? Why had she felt the need to come back one final time to return the ring that _he_ had _stolen_ from her? Was it meant to be a punishment…or an unspoken promise? Or had she simply wanted to be rid of anything that might remind her of him? He could never find an answer, and that made him even angrier; often to the point that he would find the diamond cutting into his palm as he clenched his fist around it. Before long, the ring became a talisman for him to pour his anger and frustration into.

The road out of hell, it seemed, was to be paved with diamonds and gold.

* * *

**A/N: **Yes, we are jumping back in time a bit…patience, my friends. Exposition is good. 


	3. The World Will Never Find You

**The World Will Never Find You  
**

Late February 1872  
Compiègne, France

During the weeks in Compiègne, Erik recovered enough of his wits to groom himself (barely) and feed himself (scarcely), but he was hardly even a shadow of his former arrogant self. He would not leave the chateau, spending hours sitting in darkened rooms; when he was not hidden away throwing paint at canvas in useless attempts to expel his fury and grief. Occasionally, Nadir could persuade him into a game of chess, during which Erik, with very little conversation, would thoroughly trounce him.

It was during one of those games that Nadir gave voice to his concern that the quaint little community of Compiègne would not provide Erik any chance at redemption. Thinking that a complete change of scenery was in order, Nadir casually suggested that they visit Italy.

"If you wish to go, I will not stop you, Daroga, but leave me be."

Nadir sighed, "Erik, you cannot remain here wandering about these rooms and staring at the walls. You have not even sat down at the piano once since we arrived."

"My music was for _her_, Nadir!" Erik bellowed, bringing a fist down on the table with such force that the wood crackled and the chess pieces scattered in all directions. In quieter tones, he vowed, "I will never play again."

The declaration was filled with sorrow, and Nadir sat contemplating his friend for several moments before asking, "What will you do then?"

"Why must I _do_ anything?"

Nadir's flashing eyes were the only evidence that his even temper was beginning to sizzle. "Because she did not want you to die in that dungeon you consigned yourself to. Yet in coming here to this…_shrine_…you have merely exchanged one prison for another."

Erik stood suddenly, looming dangerously over the Persian. "_She_ left me to die."

Nadir remained calm in the face of the Phantom's rage. "You told me in Paris that she freed you. Exorcised the ghost and resurrected the man."

Erik turned away, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I don't…" He drew a ragged breath and speared his fingers through his hair in agitation, hating that he had to make this confession from the very depths of his worthless soul. "I don't know _how_ to be a man."

Nadir sighed and stood, resting one reassuring hand on Erik's shoulder. "I will help you, my friend. We will have a fresh start, you and I. It is easier than you think."

xXx

Erik had scoffed at Nadir's belief that he could simply start anew. The idea of a fresh start, by its very nature, required that something must end. But his feelings for Christine had not simply disappeared with her abandonment of him. How could he begin again when his new beginning was to have been with _her_?

He had seen in the child a chance to connect with someone; to be truly alive in some small way. Christine had been alone and in need of guidance, and Erik had reached out to her in the only way available to him. She would be his pupil, and through her, he would share his music with the world.

As her childhood had melted away, and she had grown into a beautiful young woman, Erik's dreams of molding her into a diva had transformed into dreams of making her his muse…_his bride_. She had been so sweet and eager to please him then, begging every so often to see him. He had always refused, but secretly began to imagine the day when he _would_ finally reveal himself to her.

Nothing had gone as he had planned.

Christine was forever lost to him. Yet she had gifted him with a kiss, and in that moment, had shown him what it meant to love unselfishly. The Phantom had died that night, and Erik had been reborn. It was a slow and agonizing labor, but it was a beginning.

Erik was not a stranger to Italy. During his self directed exile from Paris years ago, he had spent nearly eight months in Rome before traveling east across Europe and into Persia. The eternal city had been the place where his love of architecture had truly taken wing, and he had spent hours as a young man sketching the landscape and making his own design improvements. The temptation had been great to return there, but he had chosen Milan to settle in this time, in no small part (though he would continue to deny it to Nadir) due to the city's premier opera house, _La Scala_.

Life above ground required that Erik address the not inconsequential matter of a surname, which he was unfortunately lacking. The problem was not his inability to recall his name, for he knew full well the name his mother had gone by (Madeline Laurent would be forever burned into his memory,) but he refused to claim _that woman's _name as his own. After some thought, he adopted the name Villon, for it had been the name that Antoinette Giry had been known by before her marriage. He only hoped that she would not take offense were she to discover his meager tribute.

Erik had instructed a letter be delivered to her in the hope of making restitution; enclosed within were the details of a bank account he had opened in her name via a very discreet solicitor. His fledgling conscience had prodded him endlessly over the pain he had indirectly inflicted on the woman who had saved him and kept his secrets for so many years. The very least he could do was ensure that she and her daughter would be well provided for.

He made no mention of where he was, nor the name he was now known by, but assured her that he had not perished in the fire and that his Persian associate would keep him from terrorizing any new opera houses. He could not even be certain that such information would be welcomed.

In a matter of months, all his affairs in France had been settled, including the sale of the chateau in Compiègne and the dissolution of the private accounts he had hidden away under aliases. Having thus taken care of his life as the Phantom, Erik turned his attention to the future. At first, he merely ventured out into the city during the evening hours, his keen eyes feasting on the beauty of Milan. The wary glances of those he passed on the street prickled his temper, and he would retreat to his villa in an attempt to calm his ire. Once it became clear that no mob would be pounding down his door to lynch him, he grew more comfortable with exploring his new surroundings.

His interest turned quite naturally to architecture, and after endless hounding from Nadir, he had finally taken some of his designs to an architect by the name of Signor Rivaldi. The older man had been impressed, and soon Erik found himself legitimately employed. Over the course of the next year, he began to establish a reputation as a first-rate architect among the Milanese.

He remained reclusive, however, socializing only when absolutely necessary, and usually only for business purposes. His masked face was tolerated in Italian society, but the guarded sidelong glances remained, and he was acutely aware of each and every one of them. His only indulgence, though the Daroga had often insisted it was self flagellation, was the acquisition of a palchi at _La Scala_. Erik had kept his promise, and had not touched an instrument since that ill-fated night in Paris, but he could not seem to resist opening night at the opera house. He could be found unerringly inside his private box at the premiere of each new opera with eyes riveted to the performance below.

On those nights, the ring would accompany him, pressed in his fist from the first chords of the overture until the final notes of the finale faded away. Occasionally, his mind would transform the leading soprano into _her_, though it happened with less and less frequency.

Privately, he remained as he had ever been. Alone.

He had learned to curb his temper and suppress his violent tendencies, at least in public, and had even felt the painful stirrings of remorse for his past actions. None ripped at him more than those last months in Paris. Until then, every violent act he had committed, even those unspeakable deaths ordered by the Shah of Persia, could be seen as acts of desperate survival. Joseph Buquet had been murder plain and true. It mattered little that the man was a vile, repugnant excuse for a human being, or that he had forced his unwanted attentions on more than one ballet rat. Erik had ended his life heedless of any higher judgment.

The death of Piangi had weighed even heavier, as the man had done nothing more than stand as an unwanted obstacle between Erik and Christine on the night of the Phantom's Opera. Erik had not even intended his death, merely to render him unconscious, but he had been too far beyond reason by then for his usual finesse. He knew he was damned for his past actions, but there was nothing to be done for them now except bear their onerous burden and resolve not to repeat them.

His resolution proved, at times, difficult to adhere to. He was forced into the presence of more and more people, and Signor Rivaldi, for better and worse, had made it a personal mission to pry Erik from his solitude and socialize him. _Good for business,_ he had claimed.

Alonzo Rivaldi was a task master in his professional life, but family was a priority to him, and he had a very large one. Seven daughters, none of whom had had the common decency to marry an architect, as Rivaldi often pointed out sourly. Erik had been introduced to all of them; each stubbornly refusing to allow him to remain isolated. Rivaldi's middle daughter, Sophia, was determined to fatten Erik up with her Italian cuisine, and her husband, Franco Miele, a scholar of literature, became determined to best him at quoting passages of everything from poetry to philosophy. A task he'd had no more luck in than had Nadir in his attempts to beat Erik at chess.

Rivaldi's youngest daughter, Isabella, seemed determined to discover every detail of his life, and he made great effort to distract her from her mission without causing undue distress to the girl (or her father.) Nadir claimed she was infatuated with him, and perhaps Erik might have found such a situation flattering had Isabella been just slightly older than her fourteen years (though Christine had been even younger when he'd begun his lessons with her.) Disappointing an innocent young girl was not a path he _ever _wished to journey down again.

Without even being aware of it, Erik had grown reluctantly attached in his own unique way to those who had dared breech his dark defenses. The shadows lost their appeal, and he began to creep further and further away from the gloom in an attempt to embrace life.

Living was a painful thing.

And the days moved along without pause

Before he had realized it, three years had passed. He had a home above ground, a successful career, friends, and even, on occasion, some little moments of happiness.

He should have realized it could not last.

xXx

"Erik, amico mio, you will do me a favor, yes?"

Erik arched a brow at Rivaldi, who despite doctor's orders for bed rest had come to the office looking pale and weak, and undoubtedly spreading germs all about. "That would depend upon the favor."

Alonzo smiled wanly, used to Erik's inherent need to be difficult. "You will like this one, I promise. I was to travel to Venice next week, to meet with the Doge de Veneto, Paulo Foscarini. You know this, yes?"

Erik smiled good-naturedly. "Yes." Rivaldi had been preening for months over the opportunity to design the elaborate villa the doge intended to have built in the country north of Venice.

"I want you to go in my place."

A slight frown creased Erik's brow as he asked, "You wish me to present your designs to the doge?"

"No," Alonzo said. "Not mine. You will show him yours."

Erik's frown deepened. He knew Rivaldi's illness had been plaguing him for some time, but he had not realized it to be so serious that the older man would give up the prestige of designing for the doge. His heart suddenly felt as if it was gripped in a vice. The sensation was disquieting. "Your illness…it is that serious?"

Alonzo averted his eyes. "You are the better choice for the job, my boy." Retuning his steely gaze to Erik, he commanded, "You will go."

Erik could do nothing more than nod.

Little more than a week later, he found himself in Venice in the midst of the carnival celebration showing several of his more intricate designs to Doge Foscarini. The meeting had been a productive one, as Foscarini was a very intelligent and well spoken man who had definite ideas of what he wanted incorporated into his home. He also had the grace to defer to Erik's creativity.

Indeed the men had gotten along so well that the Doge had invited Erik to sit with him in his palchi at the _Teatro la Fenice _for the performance of _La Traviata_. Erik had been unable to refuse. The opportunity to attend such a fine opera house (next to _La Scala_, of course) was too tempting to pass up, even had he not found his companion to be moderately worthy of his time.

He had been so engrossed in taking in every nuance of the magnificent theater, destroyed twice by fire and rebuilt, that he had failed to note the various marquees advertising _La Fenice's _celebrated prima donna as _Violetta_. Foscarini had kept him distracted with fascinating tales from Venetian history before the overture, and Erik had not so much as glanced at the playbill in his hand.

Nothing could draw his attention from the stage, however, once the opera began…and nothing could have prepared him for those first haunting notes that fell from the lips of _Violetta._ In all of his life, he would _never_ forget that voice.

The stale air of _La Fenice _suddenly closed in around him, and his vision blackened until he thought he might be ill. Excusing himself rather clumsily from the box, Erik staggered outside with the playbill tightly crumpled in his fisted hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead under his mask as he wrenched the playbill open and his gaze collided with _her_ name.

Christine Daaé.

* * *

**A/N: **We have circled back nearly to where the story began, at least in Erik's case. 

It was pointed out to me that I failed somewhat in my fact checking, having the Persian partake of alcohol in the previous chapter (all apologies to the Muslim community.) However, upon some consideration, I imagined that a man such as Nadir, who left his culture and own mysterious past behind, could very well have been corrupted by the European culture. Not to mention the hell that Erik undoubtedly put him through.

To those reviewers I cannot respond to through the site, I thank you humbly for your kind words and encourage you to continue reading. I am always looking to improve my writing, and welcome constructive criticism.


	4. Your Future Bride

**Your Future Bride  
**

_Villa la Fenice  
__Venice_

Christine Daaé stared unflinchingly at the ring mocking her from her palm.

She could not fully remember how she had managed to make her way through the carnival celebration at Piazza San Marco back to her flat in the Villa la Fenice, but there she sat. The mask had been discarded somewhere between the entryway and her bed, but the gown remained.

Her tears had finally run dry, and she was left with a horrible empty feeling a thousand times worse than what she had felt before he had once again taken her in his arms. She had thought herself finally strong enough, after casting all her childish dreams to the winds, burying _Little Lotte _beneath the fifth cellar of the Opera Populáire, and emerging as the woman she knew she had always been meant to become.

She had promised herself that no one else would ever again have power over _her _life. Yet in one night, Erik had reduced La Daaé, Prima Donna of La Fenice, to the quivering, spineless ingénue who had once run away from the dark. How could she ever have believed herself capable of matching him equally in the game he was determined to play with their fates once again?

Three years.

It had been three years since the night that had forever altered her life, leaving her struggling to gain control over her own mind.

Yet she would never forget…

_xXx_

_1872  
__Paris, France  
__Hours after the tragic premiere of **Don Juan Triumphante **_

Raoul had all but dragged her from the smoldering passageways of the opera house. The frenzied crowd was pulsing with near hysteria as terrified faces ran for safety; frantic people searched for their loved ones, and some simply stared on in stupefied silence as the fire brigade tried to tame the raging flames.

When the adrenaline began to fade, a numbness permeated Christine's entire being and turned her limbs to stone. She was only half aware of being picked up into strong arms and carried through the crowd, and she was sitting in a brougham before she even realized that the smell of smoke and the dirge of screaming had faded. She gasped slightly, her hand fluttering to her throat. "Raoul…we have to go back!"

Covered in grime and exhausted from the ordeal, he looked at her as though she had lost her mind. "No, Christine," he insisted. "I am taking you to safety."

She shook her head frantically, tears springing to her eyes as she pleaded, "But the opera is my home. Meg…and Madame Giry…Raoul, I must find them!"

He shifted across the seat to take her in his arms, murmuring soothingly against her hair, "Shh, do not worry so, Lotte. I am certain they are both fine. I will have one of my servants find word of them first thing in the morning, but there is nothing more that can be done tonight. We must find someplace safe. God only knows if that…_madman_…will attempt to come after you."

Christine flinched at his words, pulling herself away from his smothering embrace. "He won't, Raoul. He let me go."

"Only because he knew he could never escape the mob," Raoul insisted. "He is a monster, Christine."

She recoiled slightly, "Please don't call him that."

Raoul's accusatory stare unnerved her, and she knew he was recalling the moment when she had willingly (perhaps even wantonly) kissed her angel. The memory caused her face to flame, and she hardly knew anymore what she was meant to feel. Her entire world had been twisted with confusion and fear since the moment she had first ripped the mask from the face of her elusive teacher. Her gaze dropped in shame as she recalled her actions, and she found herself staring at the red rope burns around Raoul's throat. All at once, her own throat tightened and a wave of suffocating guilt crashed over her.

How could she even be thinking of _him_ with sympathy after all that he had done? He had murdered Joseph Buquet in cold blood, and God only knew what fate had befallen poor Piangi. He had nearly killed Raoul, the man she had promised to spend her life with...the man she loved.

Christine ignored the tiny spark of doubt that had been ignited by her angel's kiss, and caressed the face of her betrothed. "I am sorry, Raoul," she whispered. "I just…want to forget."

He smiled softly and embraced her once again in the shelter of his arms. "You will, Christine. In time, we both will. This is all behind us now, I promise you. We are free."

xXx

Freedom had never felt so stifling.

They had stopped only briefly at his aunt's townhouse, where Raoul had rushed around like a madman, issuing orders and preparing a coach to carry them out of the city. Christine had been stripped from her sodden wedding gown by the maids and hurried into one of the dresses that Raoul had purchased for her. She had stayed briefly at the residence months ago after the tragic debut of _IL Muto_, chaperoned by his widowed aunt, la Baroness Anne-Marie de Chagny d'Amboise. The older woman's disapproval had not escaped her notice, although the Baroness had been kind enough in her reproach, merely commenting that it would be such a shame for Christine to waste her God given talent by marrying into the aristocracy. Those words had been spoken even before Raoul had formally proposed. Christine could only imagine what the woman must have thought at seeing them looking for all the world as though they were refugees from an ill fated wedding.

_Which is exactly what we are_, she thought hysterically.

Raoul did not allow them to linger long at the townhouse, but ushered his fiancée apologetically into the coach, urging her to try to rest, as they would be traveling though the night to Châteauroux. Christine's unease only increased as she learned their destination, but Raoul was all assurance that they must be as far from Paris as possible so that she would be safe. She was too exhausted to argue, and soon she'd drifted into a fitful sleep plagued by visions of her angel reaching out bloodied hands toward her and begging her to stay with him.

The horses had been pushed to their limit, and the 145 plus mile journey to Châteauroux had finally come to an end by the following afternoon. Christine's confinement at Chateau de Chagny was only just beginning.

In all her life, she would never forget the look of utter contempt on the face of Philippe, Comte de Chagny when he was introduced to his brother's fiancée. She had known, even without benefit of a mirror, that she must have looked a fright after having been hastily buttoned into a gown far too fancy for traveling and spending the night in a coach. Her hair was still loose and the curls wild from the harrowing events of the previous evening, and she likely still had a good deal of her stage make up on...most of it undoubtedly streaked from the endless tears she had shed.

The Comte de Chagny certainly must have thought her a common street walker, and discovering she was an opera singer was hardly an improvement. He smiled his most falsely polite smile, and excused himself, dragging Raoul away with him. Christine had not been able to avoid hearing the first attack of the argument that had ensued between the brothers.

"Are you insane, Raoul? What can you be thinking, bringing that…that…_opera trash _to our parents' home? I thank God that they are not alive to see this."

The door of the library was quickly slammed, and whatever else may have been said was left to Christine's imagination. She sank down onto a wingback chair and allowed herself to dissolve into tears once again. Raoul had warned her, of course, that his brother would be slow to accept their engagement, but she had not realized just how cruel the accusations would be. In Paris, there had been sidelong looks and whispers about her supposed affair with both the Vicomte and the Phantom, but the scandal had been barely a ripple in the sea of Parisian gossip. For the first time, she truly considered what it would mean to marry into Raoul's world. She would always be the opera trash that had snagged a rich aristocrat.

Yet what choice did she have now?

xXx

The atmosphere at Chateau de Chagny did not become any more welcoming in the weeks that followed. Philippe had stormed out of the house after his 'conversation' with Raoul and returned only long enough to announce he would be traveling to Normandy for a holiday.

She remembered very little of Philippe from her childhood, being that he was more than sixteen years older than Raoul; the product of their father's first marriage. She'd heard whispers at the opera house, when she'd first arrived, of an illicit affair with the Prima Ballerina, La Sorelli, but Christine had been far too young and lost in her grief to pay much heed to the rumors.

Philippe was not unattractive (though nearing forty and a bit worse for wear.) His hair was dark and threaded with gray, and he had a perfectly groomed mustache, but there was something unsettling about him that she simply could not place, and she was secretly glad for his absence.

Their sister, Élise, had been kinder in her manner, but the disapproval in her eyes had been obvious, and her gentle corrections of Christine's etiquette could be far more cutting than Philippe's open hostility. Raoul had done his best to reassure his beloved that all would be well, and pushed ahead with wedding plans despite her hesitation.

Christine, in direct contrast to his excitement, became more and more reticent, and had taken to spending hours walking alone in the gardens, or sitting in the massive De Chagny library. Some days, she stared endlessly at the portrait of Raoul's father over the mantle; his dark hair and accusatory eyes sending shivers down her spine as he seemed to stare back in mocking arrogance. Inexplicably, the image of her angel would come to her in those moments, and she'd be left with the inescapable feeling that she was making a terrible mistake.

Raoul, God bless him, had been true to his promise to deliver word of Paris to her, assuring her that both Meg and Madame Giry had come through the fire unscathed. A small package of her rescued effects was sent via special post, and upon its arrival, Christine took it directly to her bedroom and carefully locked the door. She gingerly opened the package to find her journal, her father's portrait, and her mother's locket. Mixed in with her meager possessions was a black hair ribbon, and only when it blurred in her vision did she realize that she was crying.

It was as if a floodgate had been opened, and she fought to stifle the sobs that racked her slender shoulders, knowing that if anyone were to hear, Raoul would be at her door in a heartbeat, and she did not want him just now.

She wanted her angel. She needed to mourn the loss of him without guilt. The papers had all supposed the Phantom to be dead, but Christine did not want to believe it could be true, and she sent a silent plea to God that he had escaped…that he was somewhere safe…and _living_.

She had pressed that damned engagement ring into his palm in the hopes that he would hold on to her promise to him…her promise that he was not alone. She had prayed it would be enough, because she could not give him more. He had asked too much of her…_needed_ too much, and she hadn't even been certain exactly _what_ he needed. She had only known that she was nowhere near strong enough to stand on her own two feet. Carrying him would have been impossible.

So she had left with Raoul…because she had promised him, too. Promised to love him and be his bride, but it seemed more and more that she was incapable even of that.

Once her anguished tears had finally dried, she drifted into a fitful sleep and dreamed of her angel, as she had so many nights before. She stood before his unmasked face; his eyes so full of hope as he whispered, _Christine, I love you_. This time she did not give him the ring, but instead slipped her hand into his and allowed him to pull her into his embrace.

xXx

Two nights later, Christine was cinched up tightly in an elaborate pale blue gown and draped over Raoul's arm as he proudly escorted her around the ballroom of the Comte Levesque. The party swirled around them, ladies demurely deferring to their men in all politeness, only showing their claws when left to their own devices, gathering into cliques that would never include Christine. She felt ill from all the careful subterfuge and political jockeying raging around her. Countless eyes followed her, scrutinizing her every breath and cataloging each little flaw.

She was not deaf to the whispers, but caught their catty words in clips and phrases. '_Harlot…opera ghost…kidnapped… Phantom's fille…little nobody…what can he see in her?' _

She suffered through it all with a fake smile, watching Raoul in an attempt to discern if he was even aware of the gossip they were causing. He seemed oblivious, and she began to understand that he was immune to all of it. This was his life; he had been raised in this world, with these people, and taught to accept the attention, both positive and negative, and simply discard that which did not please him. Just as he had discarded a cravat yesterday that was out of style, and a waistcoat last week that had no longer suited his fancy.

_What will happen if he suddenly decides that** I**_ _no_ _longer suit his fancy?_

She felt guilty for the thought even as it entered her mind. This was the man who had risked his very life in order to rescue her. Yet, there was another man who had torn out his own heart to set her free…so that _she_ could be happy.

Was she happy? _Could _she be happy as the Vicomtesse de Chagny?

The answer came with aching certainty.

* * *

**A/N: **Ah, Christine…what have you done? 

Again, thank you to those reading. Comments are welcome.


	5. You Will Understand In Time

**You Will Understand In Time  
**

_Spring 1872  
__Châteauroux, France_

Upon arriving home from their (not so) triumphant entrance into the elite society of Châteauroux, Raoul embraced Christine with a lazy smile and bent to press his lips to hers. She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the kiss, allowing him to deepen it as he pleased. He did so eagerly, having been relegated to chaste pecks ever since their arrival at the chateau. His frustration had not been gladly suffered, as evidenced by his diminishing patience in regards to their impending marriage, and he seemed to pour the weeks of bottled passion into his kiss.

Such an ardent display should have had Christine swooning, but to her utter despair, his adoration left her wholly unaffected. Her mind involuntarily called up the image of another kiss, and she pushed Raoul away with a horrified gasp.

Confusion clouded his features, and a brief flash of anger sparked in his eyes before remorse took over. "Forgive me, Christine. I did not mean to be so forward," he muttered apologetically; his tone only just failing to achieve complete sincerity.

She turned away from him then, unable to face him as her heart twisted painfully beneath her breast. "No Raoul," she whispered. " I am the one who must beg your forgiveness."

"Nonsense," he laughed, gently wrapping his arms around her from behind and pulling her trembling form against his chest. "You have nothing to be sorry for, my love. We were both momentarily swept away by passion. It is perfectly natural."

There was _nothing _natural about her faithless response to his touch. She wrenched herself out of his arms and spun to face him with shameful tears spilling from her eyes. "You don't understand, Raoul. I…I can't…"

His concern for her was evident in every nuance of his being. "Christine? What is wrong? Why are you crying?" Gentle thumbs were wiping at her tears, and his tenderness only made her agony that much worse.

"Please stop being so damned nice," she said sharply as she grasped his wrists and drew his hands away from her face.

He started at that, surprised both by her tone and her words. "Christine?," he asked again, at a loss to understand what was happening.

"I don't belong here, Raoul," she forced out; the words ringing with the truth that she had struggled to ignore for too long.

He scoffed, shaking his head and insisting, "Of course you do." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Did someone say something untoward tonight? You mustn't take anything to heart, Christine."

"Not take it to heart?," she cried. "Raoul, those…_people_…looked at me like I was _nothing_. They think me a grasping little nobody who has dug her claws into a man too far above her!"

Raoul gripped her shoulders. "_We _know that isn't true. I _love _you, Christine. That is all that matters."

She raised a gentle hand to his cheek. "And I love you, Raoul," she whispered. He smiled then, but it faded quickly when he noticed the look in her dark eyes. She drew a ragged breath, "But it isn't enough. Not to sustain a lifetime."

He jerked his face away from her touch and sharply released her. "How can you say that? After everything we have been through," he broke off in anger. "We are finally free to be together!"

"But we are not free, Raoul. Don't you see that? We are hiding away from the rest of the world, ignoring reality in order to hold on to our grand romantic fantasy…but it isn't real."

"My feelings for you are very real!"

She shook her head sadly. "I don't think they are. I think we both wanted to be in love so badly that we convinced ourselves that nothing else mattered…but we cannot pretend anymore, Raoul."

"Pretend? Is that what our engagement has been to you?," he asked incredulously. "Am I nothing more than the prince in one of your father's fairy stories who has rescued the damsel from the evil dragon?"

"No, of course not!" She reached out to him again, but he recoiled, and she dropped her hand awkwardly to her side. "Raoul, I _do_ love you, and I have cherished every moment that we have spent together, but I do not belong in your world," she reasoned. "Your brother is right…as is everyone else who has undoubtedly been telling you what a mistake it would be to marry me."

"No," he insisted again, but his protest had lost some of it force.

"I am only an opera singer, Raoul." She laughed ruefully, "And I _like_ being one, and performing before an audience. I do not think I could ever be truly happy without music in my life."

"You can have music in _this life_, Christine," he bargained. "There will be nights like tonight when you could sing for our friends, or perhaps in the choir at church…"

"But never on stage," she interrupted, her voice rising slightly in question.

"No," he admitted quietly. "It wouldn't be proper for a Vicomtesse to perform on stage."

"Oh Raoul, do you not see how very wrong I would be in the role of your wife?" She took his hand then, pleading with him to see the truth of her words. "You deserve a woman who will love you above all else, who you can be proud to introduce to your peers. Not one who spends her days longing for a different life."

His eyes narrowed on her, and he pulled his hand away. "And a different man?"

Christine looked away from his knowing stare, all too aware of her own inconstancy in matters of the heart. "He has nothing to do with this," she lied.

Raoul sighed, "Tell me, Christine, if he had been a normal man… a _handsome_ one…" His short laugh was entirely without humor, "Or even a _sane_ one, would I have had even the smallest chance?"

She could not answer him, and she knew she did not need to. She had already answered him a hundred times over in the tiniest of actions: an unexplained tear, a haunting melody quickly stifled when he entered the room, her inability to give him even a fraction of the passion she had openly displayed in the arms of another man.

He sighed raggedly and his entire posture sagged in tired defeat, as though all the life had drained from him. "Will you return to Paris then?" At her silent nod, he said, "I will see to the arrangements tomorrow. If nothing else, I am certain the Girys will be delighted to see you again." He turned towards the stairs, pausing only to call back quietly over his shoulder, "If ever you need any dragons slain, Christine, you know where to find me."

xXx

Christine's return to Paris was subdued; steeped as it was in regret and bitter disillusionment. Breaking with Raoul had been difficult, but she believed it for the best. His family was undoubtedly rejoicing her faithlessness, and she prayed that one day he would forgive her for her inability to keep her imprudent promises to him. She had been suffocating in the ivory tower he had placed her in, and her treacherous heart kept replaying every moment with her angel until she thought she might go mad from the weight of each missed opportunity.

She had sought out the Girys immediately upon arriving, and was swept into an enthusiastic hug by Meg. Madame's embrace had been more restrained, but no less welcoming. Christine recounted to them all that had occurred during their separation, from her disappearance during _Don Juan Triumphante _up until her broken engagement and arrival on their doorstep.

Both Girys wore matching expressions of bewilderment at her actions, and Christine was bombarded with the expected questions, answering each one with confidence and ensuring them that she had thought her choice through (for once) and was certain that, if nothing else, it was entirely her own decision.

She had a modest savings that she had yet to touch, some inherited from her father and most from her frugal days at the opera, and intended to send letters of inquiry to every opera house in Europe, from _Covent Gardens _to the _Kungliga_ to _La Scala. _She would begin again in the chorus if she must, as long as she could sing. The months of unending silence had slowly drained her of what little had remained of her soul, and she would not be without music again. Raoul had offered to give her reference to wherever she wished to perform, but Christine had refused, determined that their break would be a clean one.

Madame Giry had nodded approvingly at her newfound maturity, and insisted that Christine stay with them until she found a new position. She had gratefully accepted, silently promising herself that she would be having a private conversation with her former ballet mistress very soon.

For more than nine years, Christine had been taught and molded by her angel. Her lessons had entailed so much more than music, covering literature and languages, philosophy and politics. She had loved every moment of her secret nighttime assignations…until she had lifted away the veil of secrecy and been confronted with a man of flesh and blood…a man she did not know at all. In her fear and confusion, it had become too easy to make him into the monster that everyone else believed him to be.

She had never even asked his name.

It would be Madame Giry who would finally answer the questions that Christine should have asked of her angel. On her second afternoon in Paris, after Meg had been sent off to lunch with friends from the ballet company she had recently found a position at, Christine sat with the elder Giry and was told everything.

"His name is Erik," Madame said. "If he has a surname, he has never revealed it to me."

Christine ran the name over and over in her mind.

_Erik. _

Breathing in the sweet air of discovery, she prodded, "How did you come to know him?"

Antoinette Giry arched one elegant eyebrow, asking, "Did the Vicomte not tell you this story already?"

Christine froze, her blood suddenly turning cold at the seemingly innocent inquiry. "You spoke to Raoul of him?"

The older woman nodded curtly, "After the Bal Masque." When Christine went pale before her, Antoinette sighed, "I should have know he would not tell you."

Over the next hour, Madame Giry turned the ghost into a man with every heart wrenching detail that she confessed. When she had finished, Christine demanded, "And Raoul knew all of this?" She was angry beyond reason that her trusted protector and fiancé would have kept such pertinent details from her. Had she known, she would never have agreed to bait the trap meant to kill her angel.

_Of course_, she realized furiously, _Raoul had recognized that fact. _

"Oui." Madame Giry hesitated a moment before she continued, "There is one thing I did not tell the Vicomte. Erik did leave the opera house for nearly six years, shortly before I married Meg's father. He was…angry at me for my perceived abandonment of him. I do not know where he went, or what he did in that time away from Paris, but when he returned…the boy I had known was gone." The woman grasped Christine's hand, her steely composure crumbling entirely as tears streamed over her cheeks. "You must understand, Christine," she pleaded, "when I brought you to live with me, Erik was immediately drawn to you, and I saw glimpses of a light in his eyes that had been missing for so very long. I truly thought your association to be for the best…that you might…heal one another."

They were both weeping by then, and Christine threw herself into the arms of her foster mother. Madame Giry had wanted only the best for both her charges, but they had each selfishly wounded the other, and Christine was left broken with the knowledge that she had been the one to inflict the killing blow.

She made a silent vow that she would not waste the gift that Erik had given her.

She would sing again…for her angel.

xXx

Not six months later, Christine Daaé set foot upon the Venetian stage of _Teatro la Fenice _for the first time. She would make it her own before the curtain closed. No opera ghost had pulled the strings of her grand debut, merely an aging diva and manager who placed art above profit.

Signor Leonardo Dellano had known nothing of Christine's short but scandalous career in Paris. She had been simply another young soprano to audition for the chorus, but from the moment she had opened her mouth to sing, he had understood that she was destined for greatness. Her progression up through the company had been swift, but justified by her talent, and so her success was accepted as due to her.

She had achieved everything that Erik had ever wanted for her.

Almost everything…

La Daaé became a mystery to those around her, and the new favorite subject of many a curious tongue. She was young, intelligent and beautiful, and she had countless admirers pushing bouquets, candies and champagne at her after each performance, yet she never encouraged them nor accepted any as suitors. She made precious few friends in Venice, preferring to keep her own counsel, and in doing so, earned a reputation as something of a recluse. She was well aware that she had become the center of gossip due to her decided _lack _of scandalous behavior. A tragic love affair was invented, in which she spent her days mourning for her lost lover, and it was not so very far from the truth.

Erik remained a constant presence in her dreams, and every night she could rewrite their tragic ending as she pleased, only to awaken to the harsh light of loneliness. She often thought herself quite mad to have fallen in love with a memory, but that is precisely what Christine had done.

He had given her his music, and she made it her own with every performance.

She sang only for _him_.

The premiere of _La Traviata _during the carnival season had been no different. As her aria resonated through _La Fenice_, wrapping the audience in a blanket of emotion, she _became_ _Violetta_. Her suffering was a living entity centered solely upon one name.

Erik.

**

* * *

A/N:** And now we truly are right back where we began. 

I believe the site has been acting up a little, as I didn't receive any emails of the reviews for the last chapter, so I am left to wonder if my replies made it to their destinations. Therefore, allow me to thank those of you who reviewed from the very depths of my soul.

Hope you continue to enjoy.


	6. In the Light

**In the Light  
**

_1875  
__Hotel Hostaria, Venice  
__le Céneri (Ash Wednesday)_

The bells of San Marco chimed insolently through Venice on the first morning of Lent. The Carnival had ended, and now all the pious Venetians would repent for their sins, both real and imagined. Erik had no interest in this ritual. He wanted nothing more than to escape this place and return to Milan to lick his wounds. Yet he was to meet again with the Doge Foscarini before leaving the city, and, upon reflection, refused to disappear into the shadows to hide as he once had.

He reasoned that he was unlikely to see Christine again if he did not wish to do so. She knew nothing of him (except, it seemed, his name, for which he was certain he could thank Antoinette Giry) or his business in Venice, and she had no way to find him, even had she wanted to.

He had, of course, underestimated her.

The knock at his door was proof of this, as he swung it open expecting the concierge and found, instead, Christine Daaé, in all her indignant glory. She had shed the affected persona of the masquerade and faced him now without artifice. She wore a simple gray skirt and jacket over a white blouse, and her hair was swept back from her face with a black ribbon. She looked exactly as he remembered her.

Well, perhaps not _exactly_. The promise of her youth had been fulfilled in spades, and she had grown even more impossibly beautiful. He took in every aspect of her more mature appearance, silently cursing himself for the power she still unknowingly held over him. She stared at him with irritated brown eyes, and he swiftly realized that nearly a minute had passed and he had failed to invite her in. Of course, he could also rudely demand that she leave and slam the door in her face, but he suspected that would only prolong both their suffering.

He stepped back from the doorway and gestured for her to enter, and a flicker of uncertainty passed over her face as she hesitated at the threshold. Erik raised an amused brow, and her gaze narrowed in response before she straightened her shoulders and marched inside. He couldn't suppress the tiny grin that flirted with the corner of his mouth. This new Christine could prove to be quite…_fascinating_.

xXx

Her stomach was quivering with nerves as she turned to face him. The full face mask that had obscured his features last evening had been replaced by the more familiar half mask, although he seemed to now favor black over white. She wished, not for the first time, for the ability to read him, but Erik was as much a mystery to her as he had ever been. Though for a moment she thought that she had seen the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Dare I ask how you found me," he said without preface.

Despite her trepidation, a tiny smile bloomed as she replied, "Had you wished for anonymity in Venice, you really should not have attended _La Traviata _with the doge."

Christine silently wondered at whatever Fate seemed to entwine their lives. She had spent the early hours of the morning weeping over yet another missed opportunity, only to be pulled from her misery by the appearance of her manager, Signor Leonardo Dellano, at her door demanding to know what she had done to offend Doge Foscarini's new architect. She had been amazed to discover that she had somehow missed the gossip swirling around the masked man who had attended the opera only two nights before with the doge. Signor Dellano had been a veritable fountain of information about Erik Villon, and Christine had absorbed every detail.

The object of her regard sighed audibly, "It seems I am losing my touch." When she made no response, he looked at her pointedly. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected reunion?"

Christine unflinchingly met his gaze. "Unfinished business," she stated simply.

His face darkened to a familiar scowl, and he hissed, "All of our _business_ is at an end. All accounts were settled last evening, as far as I am concerned. Now if you will excuse me…"

"No." She squared her shoulders and attempted to match his glare with one of her own. "I will not leave this room until I have had my say."

"You have become quite the demanding little diva," he growled.

"I am what _you_ made me, Erik."

His jaw was visibly clenched as he silently glowered over her. She could almost see him struggling to calm himself with slow even breaths before he finally said, "Very well, Mademoiselle. Speak your piece, if you must." He sank into the little chair by the window and gestured for her to be seated in the opposing one. Crossing his arms defiantly, he said, "I am all attention."

Christine drew a fortifying breath and sat primly across from him. Hesitantly, she began, "I am not the same girl you knew in Paris."

A derisive chuckle escaped him. "Indeed, you are lacking many of the traits I well remember; weeping at the slightest provocation, shivering in fear of the smallest shadow, clinging to handsome young noblemen…"

Her temper sizzled to life at his accusations. "My world was crumbling around me! Everything that I had believed in was proven a lie…no more than a twisted illusion."

His arms uncrossed as stood to tower over her, and she drew back without thought. Erik noticed her recoil, and turned away from her as he attempted to rein in his temper. Seeing his struggle, Christine stood to regain her ground and continued in soft even tones. "I was so very young, Erik. And so very sheltered, first by my father, and then by…you." She watched his shoulders rise and fall in a silent sigh at her words. "I knew nothing of life. At least, not beyond the libretto of an opera. Yet you expected me to embrace what I could not understand."

Erik turned back to face her, his eyes filled with sorrow. "I asked you to embrace _me_, Christine. _Your teacher_." He reached out one gentle hand to stroke her cheek, and she unconsciously leaned into the touch. "Perhaps I was not completely honest in my approach, but our lessons were real enough."

Her eyes fluttered closed as she confessed, "Yes." Then she stepped away, breaking the spell he was weaving. "But you made it so difficult to find the truth amidst all the anger and deception."

He averted his gaze as his hand fell weakly to his side. "I knew no other way. What little hope I had that you might come to accept me was ripped away with my mask."

Christine choked back a sob, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. That single moment had defined the course that both their lives had taken, birthing her fear and confusion, and enflaming his anger and mistrust. The very foundations of their respective worlds had been irrevocably cracked, marking the fall as inevitable and leaving them both to rebuild themselves into something new and, hopefully, better. She refused to let her thoughtless actions destroy them once again. "You must know that it was never your face that I feared."

"Yes," he snapped. "I clearly recall…it was my distorted _soul_." Erik turned toward the window to stare blindly at the Venetian skyline. Sighing raggedly, he admitted, "You were right to fear me, Christine. I was clearly quite insane."

Tears fell unheeded from Christine's eyes as she regarded his defeated posture. "I am not blameless, Erik. There were countless moments when I might have ended the madness just by reaching out to you, but I turned away again and again."

Erik turned back to face her, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Nothing could have changed the outcome, my dear. I was already too deeply consumed by my demons. Even had you succumbed to me without struggle, I would have undoubtedly destroyed the both of us before long." A sad smile touched his lips as he admitted, "But you _did_ reach me. For one brief moment, you saw me…touched me…as a man. I simply had yet to learn how to act as one."

Christine answered with a tentative smile of her own. "Then I suppose we are even in that regard, as it was you that awoke me as woman. I simply had yet to fully release the little girl that I had been." He regarded her steadily, and she felt the cloud of blame and regret that had surrounded them begin to disperse, if only a little.

"It was never my intention to cause you any pain, Christine," he said. "Whatever else you believe, you must know that everything I did was meant for your happiness. Though I realize now that it must not have seemed so at time…"

"I know, and I forgave you long ago."

Erik shook his head in disbelief and turned away from her again. "I am not deserving of your forgiveness."

"Perhaps not, but you have it nonetheless." She had forgiven him before her lips had ever parted from his on that night below the fifth cellar. Perchance it was pure folly to have granted him pardon for his crimes against her, but she had done it regardless of his deservedness. He had been her angel, and she would surely have descended into her own grief induced madness if not for his constant presence in her young life. "I would hope that I might have your forgiveness as well," she pleaded as her eyes dropped demurely

He looked at her sharply, his brow creasing in contemplation, before his dark expression began to clear. "You have it," he finally said on a sigh.

Christine allowed herself to smile fully for the first time in longer than she could recall. Reaching into the small pocket of her brocaded jacket, she pulled out a shimmer of gold and blue-fire, saying, "I believe this belongs to you."

xXx

Erik stared hard at that damnable ring held so daintily between her thumb and forefinger. He felt the tenderness that had been blooming for her once again turn bitter in his stomach.

_What game is she playing at?_

With icy tones, her sneered, "You are mistaken, Mademoiselle."

Christine's smile fell away at once, and she withdrew her hand. "Forgive me. I only thought…"

"What?," he heatedly cut her off. "That I would gladly accept your little token back so that you can walk away with conscience clear once again?"

Her frown deepened, and her expressive brown eyes shimmered with moisture. "Is that why you believe I gave you the ring?"

"I never could account for the gesture, try as might," he growled. "It was, after all, a gift from your _Vicomte_."

"But it became a symbol of my promise to _you_," she insisted. "I was not able to keep such a promise then, but I wanted you to _remember_. To have _something_ to remind you of..." Her words trailed off hopelessly.

"Of you?," he supplied with a derisive laugh. "As if I could ever forget!"

The knowledge that she had meant the ring to be a replacement for _her _annoyed him terribly, even as it calmed some of the endless ache within him. He _had _used it to remember every excruciating detail of that night, both what he had gained and what he had lost.

Christine stared quietly at the ring for a long moment before she whispered, "I wore it on my finger only once. For _you_."

Erik swallowed convulsively, uncertain how to proceed in so foreign a circumstance. He couldn't begin to understand her mind, nor deduce what her intent was in seeking him out again. "What do you want of me, Christine?"

She slowly lifted her gaze until it joined with his. "I want…" She paused and drew a deep breath, as if she needed it to somehow build her courage. "I want to _know_ you," she confessed. "I want a chance to begin again…as we are now. With no secrets, no fairytales or illusions. Only the two of us, Erik."

She reached her free hand up to trace the skin just below his mask, and he felt himself lean into her touch without flinching. "You may not like what you find now anymore than you did before," he muttered.

Christine smiled softly. "And you may wonder whatever possessed you to believe yourself in love with me."

Erik somehow doubted that possible, for he was even now in danger of falling deeper into her silken web. Without thought, he found himself saying, "My business in Venice will last another week, at least. Perhaps you would not be opposed to dining with me on one or two evenings?"

Her smile turned slightly mischievous, and Erik found it suddenly difficult to breathe properly. Eyes twinkling, she teased, "I don't know, m'sieur. My teacher is very strict."

He could not fight the smile that spread over his face until it touched even his eyes. "I think he will understand, Mademoiselle. And if he does not, I will have a word with him."

Her gaze was riveted on his mouth, and a charge of awareness passed through him. By her inaudible gasp, he knew she felt it as well. His smile faded, and he could not have stopped himself even had he fully mastered the art self control, which, of course, he had not.

His lips descended even as she tilted her chin up to meet him. The first contact was no more than a feathery brush, but it was not nearly enough for either of them. Her arms were around his neck in a heartbeat and the kiss was deepened into a dance of sensation with both of them fighting to lead. Years of restrained passion threatened to consume him as he pulled Christine closer until nothing separated their bodies except the layers of clothes covering their heated flesh.

The wicked part of his mind was conscious of the bed nearby and the ease at which he could lay her down and finally satiate his hunger to possess her. Yet he knew to do so would destroy the fragile peace between them and ruin whatever chance they may have to truly begin anew. He reluctantly broke their kiss and pulled away from her, pleased far more than he should be to see her passion filled eyes glittering with confusion. "Supper tonight…" He was shocked to hear the lust fueled rasp of his own voice. "Seven o'clock?"

Christine struggled to regain her composure, finally nodding in agreement. "_La Fenice _is dark tonight. My flat is in the annex, the Villa la Fenice."

"Until then, mon ange."

Christine quivered at his endearment, her kiss swollen lips trembling with a watery smile. She grasped his hand in both of hers and pressed a chaste kiss (in comparison to what they had just shared) to his mouth. "Tonight, my angel," she whispered, and then she was gone.

Only after the door clicked shut did he realize that she had once again left him with the ring and a promise.

And only when he glanced back into his suddenly too empty room did he realize that his mask lay unceremoniously upon the floor.

* * *

**A/N: **Bit of angst. Touch of fluff. I leave you with a ring and a promise. 

Again…thank you to those kind enough to review. I welcome feedback.


	7. Quite A Night

**Quite A Night**

"As new beginnings go, I fear we are failing rather abysmally."

Christine jolted at the intrusion of Erik's rich tenor into what had been a perfectly awkward silence. She lifted her dark eyes from the table and regarded him thoughtfully, taking note of the sardonic arch of his brow and jaded expression. He sat across from her at a corner table (far from curious eyes by his request) in Ristoranté la Rosa (and how thoroughly _him _to choose the one restaurant in Venice with such an apropos moniker.) A single candle flickered between them, creating a seductive dance of light and shadow across the contours of his mask that seemed to mirror his very nature.

His bitter assessment of the evening was the first he had spoken to her in more than twenty minutes, though in all fairness, she had been equally as quiet. For three years, she had often allowed her thoughts to travel freely along the path toward a reunion with Erik, and the imagined results had run the course from agonizing to passionate. The reality was proving beyond the scope of her musings. An uncomfortable tension had begun to bristle between them from the moment he had appeared in the doorway of her little flat, and had yet to dissipate, though they were more than halfway through their meal. Christine recognized her own nervousness as one part awareness and two parts fear, but she could not account for his and was feeling more than a little out of her depths.

"Failure is nothing more than the absence of practice," she murmured absently.

A reluctant smile curved his sensual lower lip. "Well, at least you remember some of your lessons."

Christine sighed and returned his smile. "I remember them all." Her grin faded only slightly as she confessed, "They were my only moments of happiness for so long."

His shoulders grew rigid once again, and his eyes glittered with irritation. "A delusion, Christine," he snapped. "We cannot rewrite history."

Her chest tightened at his obvious distrust of her words, but she knew he had every reason to doubt her. She had thoughtlessly denied him and all that he had given her without ever acknowledging the years she had spent as his willing pupil. There had been so many days when the only thing that had kept her from curling into a ball and dying had been the thought of her angel and the lessons they shared. None of his subsequent actions could negate the beauty he had brought into her young life. "No," she murmured. "But neither can we erase it."

"My point exactly!"

Christine wanted to scream in frustration at his intractability. He sat with a look of angry triumph upon his face and his knuckles turning white where they gripped the edge of the table. Forgiveness, it seemed, was not to be so easily earned from Erik. With a mournful shake of her head, she pleaded, "Would you have me remember only the pain we inflicted upon one another?"

She wished, not for the first time, that she could read the tiny nuances of his expression. A muscle jumped in his cheek before he visibly forced his jaw to relax. With a surprisingly calm voice, he countered, "I cannot comprehend why you are choosing to ignore it."

"I am not ignoring it, Erik, merely accepting it. Forgiving it." Driven by instinct, she reached across the table and placed her hand over his, determinedly ignoring the way he flinched almost imperceptibly at her touch. "Our past is what makes us who we are today, and I happen to like who I have become."

Erik tilted his head thoughtfully, his eyes intent upon hers. Gradually, his posture began to relax and one corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smile. "And who _are _you Christine Daaé?"

_Now **there** was a question for the ages. _

She hardly knew herself at times, so many transformations had she made in so short a period. Erik undoubtedly knew her best as the lost little girl who had been so easily led by everyone around her. _Little Lotte_, indeed. Her demise had been, at least in part, at his hands, and Christine could not bring herself to mourn the loss. Only a glimmer of the woman she had become had been visible in Paris, and she had long wondered if Erik would even recognize her now. Raoul certainly had not.

She sighed, "I do not think that one evening is time enough to answer such a question."

"Then merely a beginning will suffice," he said with a casual shrug. "How did you come to be in Venice?"

The force of his gaze upon her belied the seeming innocence of his query. She understood what he had left unasked; the challenge evident in his eyes. He had been genuinely surprised when they had danced together during the Carnival that she had not been a married lady, even though he had addressed her as _Signorina_. After all, countless women continued to use a maiden name for appearances on stage. It often simplified matters, especially if the lady had a habit of changing husbands as often as she changed her costume. Erik had obviously expected that she would be a Vicomtesse, safely tucked away somewhere in the French countryside.

"Would you not prefer to ask me why I did not remain in France?," she challenged.

His visible brow lifted elegantly. "Is it not the same question?"

Christine was acutely aware of how easily she could be outmaneuvered in these little verbal spars he seemed to favor. She liked to believe that she had grown much stronger in the past three years. She was a well renowned diva (even somewhat demanding in the role on the rare occasions when her temper sparked,) respected by her peers, indulged by her manager, and adored by her pubic. Yet Erik could reduce her to a quivering, childish mess with a single look. It would not do to let _this_ conversation get away from her. "You know very well that it is not."

His mouth curved into an almost brutal smile as he settled back into his chair and urged, "Then perhaps you should begin with a brokenhearted _Vicomte_."

_No, _she thought. _I must begin with a brokenhearted angel_.

She dared not speak the words aloud, however, afraid to place him on the defensive again. His volatile moods shifted so quickly, and she wasn't yet confident that she could keep up with them. She had failed so miserably before. The twisted pleasure that Erik so obviously received from the idea of Raoul suffering served to remind her that she must tread carefully with this subject.

The memory of that last night beneath the opera came unbidden, and Christine dropped her eyes in shame. "I am not proud of the pain I caused, Erik. To both you and Raoul."

He sneered at the hated name on her lips, hissing, "I would prefer you not compare me to _the boy_."

Christine met his hard stare and shook her head sadly. "There is no comparison. I will not insult your intelligence by claiming that I did not love him." She watched Erik tense at her words, and she could almost feel his pain burning through her own blood. She paused for a moment, waiting for the explosion of anger and derisive comments, but he remained silent so that she could continue. She inhaled deeply, slowly releasing the calming breath before she confessed, "But my experience with the emotion was decidedly limited. You, more than anyone, should know the truth of that. I was all of seventeen, and suddenly my childhood sweetheart appeared with flowers and compliments and invitations to supper. He was a welcomed light in the darkness that I had been living in."

"Please, Christine," he growled, "tell me no more of your lover's virtues."

"He was never my lover," she was quick to assure. It was far too embarrassing to admit that while Raoul had held her heart for a brief time, he had never enflamed her body, nor possessed her soul as Erik had. Only one man had ever had the ability to inspire such wanton desire within her, and he sat before her now with his face as impassive as the mask he wore. "Raoul was…" She struggled for the right words to describe what her one-time fiancé had been to her. "My shelter," she finally completed. "I was so frightened and confused by everything else that was happening all around me, and he was there promising love, safety, a life free of worry and fear. In that moment, I so desperately wanted all of those things."

"Things I could not offer you." Sullen resignation colored his words, and her heart broke just a little more.

"You terrified me, Erik," she admitted, and his face grew darker. "Whenever I was near you, your presence would so overwhelm me that I could scarcely even remember how to draw breath. Raoul was…comforting, and in my naivety, I believed that love should always be the gentle emotion I felt with him. Always soft and warm and uncomplicated." She had failed to recognize that passion was every bit as necessary to her as security; and passion was powerful and uncontrollable and all consuming.

"I was wrong," she admitted shamefully, "about so many things. After Raoul took me away from Paris, I spent months existing in a protected world of wealth and luxury…everything I had thought I wanted…only to cry myself to sleep each night longing for all that I had left behind. Everyday I was forced to face the reality of what my life as the Vicomtesse de Chagny would be. Forever living in a gilded cage, a prisoner of propriety…completely devoid of true freedom, of passion and…music."

Christine stared meaningfully into Erik's eyes. "And you, Erik. I could not escape the memory of you…of your kiss. It was my own personal hell that I came to fully understand my feelings for you only after I had destroyed every chance that we might have had to find happiness together. In the end, I could not destroy Raoul as well. His only sin had been loving me, but I had already betrayed him a hundred times over in my heart and my mind. I refused to betray him even further by binding him in marriage to a woman who would always be in love with another man."

She watched him freeze at her words, the meaning of them taking a moment to become fully clear to him. "Oh Christine," he rasped as he seized her hand desperately, his face a mix of hesitant joy and barely concealed anguish. "You choose to tell me this _now_, when I can barely even touch you?"

She smiled enigmatically. "You did ask…" She turned her hand over so that she could rub her thumb in tiny circles over his skin, taking more pleasure from the simple act than she reasoned was respectable. "Needless to say," she continued conversationally, though her skin was tingling with the heat of his touch, "my engagement was promptly broken and I returned to Paris eager for any word of you, but as always, I was too late. The Phantom had disappeared without a trace. I had no choice but to settle for the little pieces that Madame Giry knew of your past, and her assurance that you were still alive, though she knew not where. I stayed with her and Meg for more than four months before I secured an audition at _La Fenice_. Signor Dellano, the manager, offered me a contract at once, and I have never looked back. Nor have I ever regretted my decision to break with Raoul."

Her angel sat across from her, adoring her with those beautiful green-blue eyes that she could so easily drown in for the rest of her days. Those eyes had haunted her dreams for years. "I am exactly where I belong," she whispered huskily.

For endless moments, they simply sat with hands clasped, savoring the quiet joy of _being_. They were finally together once more, and Christine felt certain that nothing could part them again. She chose to ignore the ocean of unspoken secrets that still lay between them, confident that in time they would exorcise all of Erik's demons (some of which undoubtedly belonged to her as well.)

The intoxicating spell around them was only broken when Erik abruptly stood and all but dragged her up from her chair and away from the table. "Come…we are leaving."

"But Erik," she laughed as he gripped her hand firmly and began to lead her out of the restaurant, "we haven't finished."

He glanced back over his shoulder, and the hungry look in his eyes stole her breath and enflamed her blood. "No, mon ange," he grinned wickedly, "we are only just beginning."

* * *

**A/N: **Ah, I love a wicked Erik, don't you? 

Thank you to those who haven taken the time to review. Your encouragement is most appreciated.


	8. No More Ghost

**No More Ghost**

The slight chill in the late winter air was a welcomed sensation to Erik as he emerged from Ristoranté la Rosa with Christine in tow. He breathed deeply of the aromatic Venetian flavor in an attempt to commit every detail of this moment to his memory. So often had he dreamed of a night such as this; he was nearly certain that the firm pressure of his hand against her much softer one was the only thing keeping him anchored in reality.

_Christine Daaé loves me._

He stopped abruptly upon clearing the crowd outside the restaurant and turned to face the object of his musings, releasing her hand only to gently cup her shoulders and lovingly gaze upon her beautiful face. She immediately rested her hands upon his chest and happily smiled up at him. The light in her eyes had not diminished.

_I am not imagining this_, he thought. _This is real. She is looking upon me with her heart in her eyes._

Heedless of their very public location, Erik surrendered to his urge to taste her, dipping his head to capture her lips in a reverent kiss. He felt her soft sigh against his mouth as she responded, for just a moment, before remembering herself and gently pulling away with a very becoming blush. "Erik, not here."

_Damn propriety!_

He wanted nothing more than to pull her into the shadows and ravish her, but he knew that they would require privacy for such a momentous event. Glancing around frantically, he muttered, "Where are all the blasted broughams when you need them?"

Christine laughed, and he nearly lost his breath at the light, musical sound. To see her so joyful…to be the _cause_ of that joy, made his soul sing. "Erik, it is such a lovely night," she murmured blissfully. "Why don't we walk?"

"Do you wish to drive me mad by demanding that I wait even longer to be alone with you?"

Her smile never faltered as she seductively whispered, "Anticipation is half the pleasure." He knew that his _displeasure _must have been obvious when Christine changed tactics to an adorable pout. "Please, I have dreamt of strolling through the Piazza San Marco with you."

Erik knew he was utterly defeated, and he sighed in resignation, "Very well." He could deny her nothing, and she undoubtedly knew it. Tucking her arm into his, he led them both down the avenue toward the piazza.

As they walked together, Erik felt his heart swell almost painfully in his chest as his once dreary future suddenly spread out before him in vivid colors. Christine's warm presence beside him awakened all his long dormant dreams of living as a normal man, with an ordinary life and a loving wife at his side. He knew he did not deserve to be given a second chance after all he had done, but he had not yet become honorable enough to deny himself what she seemed so willing to offer.

Still, he could not escape the persistent thought that she would once again refuse him this chance. Christine had spoken of her desire to know him as he was now, but deep inside, his demons still lingered...tormenting him. She had been unable to face those demons in Paris, and he worried that her courage would eventually fade into the shadows of his past.

As if reading his thoughts, Christine gripped his arm a bit more tightly. "Tell me something of your life, Erik."

His steps faltered slightly at her question, and he turned his head to look at her. "What is it you wish to know?"

She smiled. "Everything."

He felt the sting of ice encase his heart at the reminder of her incorrigible curiosity, and he averted his face in an attempt to hide the bitterness in eyes. "You should be careful what you ask, my dear. My life is not a subject suitable for polite conversation."

He heard her deep intake of breath as she, no doubt, gathered her courage to oppose him. "I am fully aware of what I ask, and I _want_ to know."

"You cannot have _everythin_g you want, Christine," he snapped in anger. He felt her stiffen beside him and he regretted his words immediately. "I am sorry, mon ange, but you must understand that my past holds nothing but pain and…violence. You should not have to suffer the burden of my sins."

She halted their progress then, pulling him around to face her. "Nothing you can tell me will make me turn away from you, Erik. I have experienced your demons first hand, yet here I stand beside you." She reached up one gentle hand to caress the unmasked side of his face. "You know nearly everything about me," she continued, "but I know next to nothing of you. I did not even know your name until Madame Giry finally revealed it to me."

"You never asked it of me," he reminded her without delicacy. She had never asked _anything_ of him once she had discovered him to be a mere man and not the angel she had so blindly accepted.

His eyes followed the path of the single tear that peeked out from the corner of her eye and danced down over her cheek. "I am asking you now," she said.

Erik looked away, unable to bear her impossible expectations of him. To share his past with her would certainly ruin whatever unimaginable regard she had come to feel for him during their separation.

Seeing a bench a few meters away, he took her hand and gently led her to it. When she shivered slightly, he tugged the edges of her cloak more securely around her shoulders before clasping her hands between his. "Antoinette surely told you enough of my past for you to understand why I do not wish to speak of it."

"She could tell me only what she knew," Christine said quietly, "nothing of the time before she brought you to the opera, nor of the six years you disappeared from there shortly after her marriage."

Horrific memories of Persia assaulted him, colored with the blood of countless men, and Erik could taste the bile rising in his throat. "I will _never _tell you of those years, Christine! You cannot ask that of me."

She dropped her head in deference, her little hands gripping his as if she was attempting to keep him from disappearing before her eyes in a puff of red smoke. "What of your childhood?" she posed meekly. "Can I never ask you anything of that?"

Erik shuddered involuntarily. Those memories were equally as distasteful, but at least she already knew something of them, both through Antoinette's tale and his own resentful words to her after the aborted performance of _Don Juan Triumphante. _"I was born in Rouen, in as far as I know," he finally said. Her face lifted, and he felt ill at the sight of her tears, once again spilled at his hand. "I spent the first eight years of my life locked away in the home of my mother, Madeline Laurent," he continued with little emotion. "She was as beautiful as she was heartless. From my earliest memory, it was made clear to me that I was her curse…a burden that she was forced to suffer."

Christine gasped, "Oh, Erik…"

"No, Christine," he interrupted. "You wished to hear of my past, and you will." He could not manage to keep the resentment from his voice. "I told you once that a mask was her first and only gift to me. It was not so elegant as this," he gestured to his face with a derisive laugh. "No more than a scrap of wool, cut to cover my hideous face from forehead to lip. I hated it with a passion, but I learned very early to endure it or else be deprived of even the meager comfort of my mother's presence in the same room with me. As distant as she was, she was all I had. When I could bare her loathing of me no longer, I left…and I have never cared to discover what became of her."

"What of your father?" she managed to rasp through her tears.

"I never knew him, nor if he was even my mother's husband. All I know is that she hated him…even more, I think, than she hated me. She called him _evil_," he spat around the thickening in his throat. "A sinner whose punishment was the mark of the devil upon his seed," he finished on a choked sob. Echoes of the past thundered in his ears.

_Come see the Devil's Child. _

The last of Erik's composure crumbled and Christine blurred before his eyes. "I was a good boy, Christine," he insisted through his tears. "I always wore the mask, just as she asked of me." He was pulled into her arms then, the seemingly fragile limbs holding him tightly to her as he wept, "I wanted only some small sign of affection. No more than any child would receive. A simple kiss upon my forehead… "

"Oh, my angel." She was weeping with him, brokenly repeating endearments as she rained tiny kisses across his cheek.

For long moments they sat holding one another as the storm of emotion passed over them. When at last they had calmed, Erik lifted his head and gazed into her dark eyes. "You kissed me, Christine," he whispered as he took her face gently in his hands and wiped at her tears with his thumbs. "You gave me what she never would."

He saw the moment she fully understood. Three years before, she had unknowingly given him what even his own mother could not. The simple gift of a kiss had won her freedom, and in some strange way, his as well. Her eyes fluttered shut, and a sad, trembling smile appeared on her lips. "I would give you the sun if I could, Erik," she whispered.

"Mon ange…you _are _my sun." He slowly brought his mouth to hers and kissed her softly, tasting the salt of their mingled tears. When at last he felt the lion's share of his composure had returned, he gently extracted himself from her embrace. "You pulled me from the darkness that imprisoned me, Christine, though you did not know it."

"I did nothing, Erik," she disagreed softly. "_You_ broke the chains that bound you to that existence. _You_ walked out into the world and made a life for yourself." Christine smiled through her tears. "You have become the most celebrated architect in all of Italy."

He laughed at that. "Hardly so illustrious as that, my dear."

"Enough to catch the attention of Doge Foscarini, whom I must one day thank for bringing you back to me." She placed a chaste kiss upon his lower lip, whispering in wonder against his mouth, "To think, you have been so close all this time."

Erik sighed in pleasure and took her lips more deeply, reveling in her acceptance of him despite all that he had revealed, until she began to shiver in his arms. He chuckled, "I am a poor escort to keep you so long in the cold." He stood then and gathered her into his arms for a brief embrace before turning her back toward her flat.

Christine leaned her head against his shoulder. "Thank you for trusting me with some of your secrets, Erik."

"It is…difficult, Christine," he admitted.

"I know." Erik could almost hear the sweet smile in her voice as she spoke. "But it will get easier in time."

He wanted to argue the point; insist that his past would…_must_…remain buried, but he knew she would find ways to slip beneath his defenses. Even now he felt the balance shifting, as if some small weight had been eased from his heart, though he had not even scratched the wretched surface of his miserable childhood.

"Perhaps," he muttered distractedly.

_Perhaps…I should tell Christine more of what created the monster she so feared._

_Or perhaps not, _he silently amended as the vivid image of her terrified young face racing blindly to the roof of the opera house appeared in his mind. He had no taste for terrorizing her...he had always preferred to play the part of her angel.

"Why Milan?"

Her unexpected question startled him from his brooding, and he sighed, "That was the city to which the Daroga decided to drag me."

She lifted her head and looked at him quizzically. "The Daroga?"

Erik grinned down at her. "An…old friend."

Her eyes cleared, and she nodded firmly. "The Persian."

He stuttered in surprise, "You know of him?"

Christine's grin widened, her red rimmed eyes sparkling once again. "There was hardly a ballet rat in all of the Populáire who did not know of him." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "He was said to be linked with the Opera Ghost, you know."

Erik could not keep from laughing at her playful comment. Nadir prided himself on his discretion, yet even he could not escape the notice of a few young girls prone to gossip. "He will be pleased to know he has achieved such notoriety."

Christine grew serious once again as she admitted, "Madame Giry told me something of him, as well. I would very much like to meet him one day, Erik. To thank him for taking care of you when I could not."

He stopped and turned her in his arms, lifting one delicate hand to his lips. "Then meet him you shall, mon ange. He has long wished to make the acquaintance of the woman I love."

Erik heard her tiny gasp and watched her eyes fill, but this time with happy tears that came spilling over a trembling smile and a face suffused with joy. "Oh Erik," she breathed. "I love you."

And then those trembling lips were pressed to his.

_Christine Daaé loves me._

If this was a dream, he never wished to awaken.

* * *

**A/N: **I would like to take a moment to thank all of my faithful reviewers, and those more occasional ones. The site has been acting up, and I realize that no one has been receiving the email notifications. I appreciate that you are still finding the story despite the technical difficulties. 


	9. What A Joy

**What A Joy**

The kiss that they had shared under the stars in the Piazza San Marco held the promise of countless more to come. It was doubtful that either of them could fully account for the journey from that wondrous spot back to Christine's cozy apartment. For Christine's part, she was certain that she must have floated there.

Years of strict Catholic piety and the rigid upbringing by Madame Giry caused her to hesitate only a moment at the threshold before inviting Erik inside. His eyes were glowing with an inner fire that promised to consume her, but he made no move to breach her private domain until she welcomed him.

After living in the crowded dormitories at the Opera Populáire in Paris, Christine had reveled in the spacious quarters she now occupied, but Erik's presence seemed to fill the room completely, condensing the air around him into a cloud of thrumming energy. He made a cursory perusal of her flat, then silently turned his attention back to her. She felt her nerves begin to tingle, and her despised shyness stole away her ability to speak. Precious few words had passed between them after making such monumental confessions of love; they had both been content to bask in the quiet peace that came from acceptance. Now the quiet only served to stifle them.

Christine regarded him closely as she unconsciously toyed with a bit of lace on her dress. Erik looked nearly as anxious as she felt; his earlier bravado having slipped away upon being presented with a chance for uninterrupted privacy.

"Would you like some tea…"

"Perhaps I should take my leave…"

Their voices collided, and Christine giggled at the absurdity of the situation. Here they stood, two consenting adults who had known one another for years, and, having inflicted inexpressible pain and offered unreserved forgiveness, could not find the courage to confess their deepest desires. With a smile, she said again, "I could make us some tea, if you'd like."

Erik returned her smile. "You need not go to any trouble for me."

"It is no trouble at all. It will take only a moment to put the water on. Please…sit," she said with a gesture to her little sofa before darting into the kitchen without stopping to see if Erik had complied with her directive. Had she taken the time to analyze her actions, she might have realized that she was attempting to postpone the moment she had both craved and feared for more than three years. Her hand had not even closed around the kettle before she was pulled backward into a familiar embrace.

"Erik," she gasped, reflexively lifting her arms to rest over his. "The tea…"

"Is not what I want, mon ange," he interrupted. His words rumbled enticingly against her ear, causing her to shiver in delight. Whatever reticence he had been experiencing seemed to have evaporated, and she unconsciously leaned into his solid form; her body instantly recognizing its mate.

"And what _do_ you want?"

Christine felt his lips graze her jaw, and her eyes fell closed in pleasure. She waited in anticipation for the seductive whisper of his desire, or the gentle pressure of his hands to grow bolder, but instead he lowly chuckled. "Sing for me."

Her eyes snapped open in surprise.

_Sing for him?_

She shrugged out of his arms and turned to find his mouth curved in a knowing smirk and his eyes blazing with obvious mirth. Her annoyance only heightened at the realization that the evil man was teasing her. Erik knew full well the passionate response he could so easily elicit from her traitorous body with no more than a touch…a word really. His voice had always brought her to the very edge of ecstasy. Once she had attempted to run from such violent emotions, but now she welcomed them.

"Erik, please," she implored. "Be serious."

The merriment faded from his expression, and his face grew somber as he assured, "I am quite in earnest, my dear." He stepped closer and took her hand in his. "It has been far too long since I have heard your beautiful voice unencumbered by the corruption of a full opera company."

His words were heart-wrenchingly sincere, and Christine felt her eyes sting with moisture at the memory of those simple lessons where nothing else existed in the world save the two of them and their music. She suddenly realized how very much _she_ longed to hear _him_ sing once again. "Will you play for me?"

Erik looked startled by the question. On a hitched breath, he rasped, "I have no instrument."

"I do have a piano, Erik," she said on a laugh. "I know it is not as grand as what you are used to, but surely you could not have failed to notice it entirely."

Something in the way his mouth tightened made her think that he had done that very thing. She could not comprehend his sudden reluctance. Had he not been the one to suggest that she sing? Did he expect that she should do so without any accompaniment?

"Come," she tugged on his hand as she started back into the living room, "I am a sad musician…barely competent. You must allow me to hear how this piano is meant to sound." She stopped him beside the small square piano in the corner of the room, watching in puzzlement as his eyes clouded with unspoken agony. Christine wondered what she had said to cause such a response, but before she could question him, he sighed raggedly and traced a trembling hand over the keys.

"A fine instrument," he murmured absently. Lifting his hand, he drew a deep breath and seated himself decidedly upon the bench. When his eyes met hers once again, they were free of whatever melancholy that darkened them. He poised his nimble fingers over the ivory. "Shall we begin with a glissando?"

Christine grinned cheekily at the mention of the vocal exercises that Erik had always insisted upon to ready her for a performance. "Yes, maestro," she said obediently.

His fingers lingered hesitantly over the first notes that he played, and she watched in fascination as a look of utter serenity washed over his face. So engrossed was she in observing his pleasure that she missed her cue entirely, earning a raised eyebrow from her angel. She nodded in apology and he began again. This time she progressed easily through the scales until Erik was satisfied that her voice was sufficiently warmed up.

"The aria from _Hannibal_," he instructed.

Christine shook her head in resolution. "No." His brow lifted in challenge, and she smiled invitingly. "The duet from _Don Juan Triumphante_."

xXx

Erik froze; her words resonating through the stillness of the room. He had been battling his baser instincts from the moment he had entered her apartment. The noble part of him (however small it may be) wished to offer her all the respect that she so richly deserved, but his flesh and blood demanded the joy that he had been so long denied. There could be no escaping Christine's intent in choosing that song. She meant to strip away his fragile self-control, and he was in no position to fight her. Still, he made a half-hearted attempt.

"Christine…that piece would not be…appropriate."

Her smile was temptation itself. "I think it is the perfect choice," she whispered huskily.

He was incapable of arguing the point, not when he longed to complete their duet as he had always intended. The first strokes of his fingers over the keys of her sad little piano had effectively crumpled the last of his self-control. She could not realize the utter exaltation that he experienced in surrendering to his music after so long denying himself. For three years, he had suffered a penance of silence, and now Christine had granted him absolution. Without prelude, his own rough voice tumbled into the charged air between them.

'_You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge.' _

He silently questioned his sanity at engaging in such a dangerous reminder of their past. All of his passion, anger and longing had been bled into every note of this duet. _His _opera. Written for _her. _She had been his reluctant _Aminta_, but now she seemed eager to play the role; evidenced by the darkening of her gaze and hitching of her breath.

'_In pursuit of that wish which till now had been silent…silent….'_

The imagery of the lyrics wove an intricate spell around them both as Erik continued to sing. Christine's eyes were hooded in desire, and her entire being seemed to vibrate with yearning. He had witnessed her like this before, on that infamous night when her fear and confusion had been so briefly washed away in the wake of blossoming passion. He had allowed himself to believe then that she _had_ chosen him, only to be devastated by her betrayal and rejection. _This_ scene would play out very differently.

He was no longer the wretched beast slinking through shadows far beneath the realm of the living. His nightmare existence could no longer frighten away the heavenly creature of his dreams. Christine stood before him now with no trace of fear.

Just before her entrance into their duet, she moved from her position beside the piano to stand close at Erik's side; her hand settling over the spot where his throat met his shoulder. Then her beautiful voice answered his with resolve.

'_You have brought me, to that moment when words run dry.  
__To that moment when speech disappears into silence…silence.'_

There was unspeakable emotion in every melodious word, and Erik knew without a doubt that he would finally and completely claim his angel on this night.  
_  
'Now I am here with you; no second thoughts, I've decided…decided.'_

Their passion-play had begun long ago, and tonight the wait for completion would at last come to an end. Erik allowed Christine to seduce him with her voice, fighting against the urge to kick back the piano bench and take her into his arms.

Finally, the music mated soprano with tenor, and the beauty in their harmonious promise could not be denied.

'_Past the point of no return  
the final threshold,  
__the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn.  
__We've past the point of no return.'_

When final note had faded, Erik lifted trembling hands away from the piano. His eyes were still locked on hers, and he could see moisture glistening around the edges of those deep velvety pools. Before he could break the silence that had fallen between them, Christine continued acappella.

'_Say you'll share with me one love one lifetime.  
__Let me save you from your solitude.  
__Say you'll want me with you here beside you.  
__Anywhere you go let me go too.' _

Her hands lovingly caressed his face; fingers tracing along the edge of his mask, but making no attempt to remove it. A tremulous smile hovered upon her lips as she whispered, "Love me, that's all I ask of you."

"Oh, Christine." He stood in a fluid motion, pulling her easily into his arms and ghosting a kiss across her temple. He felt certain that if he should die in that moment, he would have been happy to have tasted one tiny of piece of heaven. "Christine," he said again. "I love you."

His fingers reverently traced her angelic features; his thumb ghosting under the curve of her lips. The rosy buds proved too great a temptation, and he surrendered to his need to taste her once again. Her mouth parted under his, pulling him deeper into the kiss, and a fire ignited in his blood as his hands traveled down across her back to press her closer to his heated body. She shuddered against him, and her arms coiled urgently around his neck; one hand threaded into his hair.

_Fast…too fast, _he thought_. I want to savor this. _

Erik reluctantly tore his mouth from hers, struggling to pull enough air into his lungs. His gaze lingered on Christine's flushed face and swollen pink lips; her breath nearly as labored as his. "Mon ange, if we continue in this way," he warned, "I cannot be held responsible for my actions."

He watched in fascination as her passion filled eyes slowly began to clear. Surely at any moment she would fully realize the perilous situation she was in and beg his forgiveness for her reckless behavior. Certainly she could not unblinkingly meet his lustful stare (as she seemed to be doing) and smile seductively (and there, that irresistible grin appeared once again) and invite him to her bed. "I shall claim full responsibility, my love," she whispered. "Please."

_Dear God, am I expected to deny her?_

On a ragged groan, Erik abandoned the last of his restraint. Sinking back into her embrace, he speared his fingers through her hair, discarding the offending pins that failed to tame her riotous curls. He felt her searching hands journey over his chest and beneath his tailcoat before pushing impatiently at the fabric. A low chuckle rumbled between them as he obeyed her silent command and shrugged out of the offending garment to let it fall carelessly to the floor.

Having succeeded at that task, Christine smiled against his mouth and turned her attention to his cravat. She was rapidly gaining the upper hand in their ardent duel, and he wondered at her boldness. He felt the press of her lips against his exposed throat, and he could not suppress his delighted growl. She feathered a kiss to his chin, another across his jaw, and one to the corner of his mouth before capturing his lips fully once again.

So lost was he in her kisses, he failed to realize that her left hand had come to rest upon his mask. Only when he felt the cold caress of air against his face did he fully realize what she had done.

_Again._

**

* * *

A/N:** Comments? 

As always, thank you to my readers for allowing me to share a small part of your day. And to my reviewers, you make me giddy.


	10. A Blessed Release

**A Blessed Release**

Christine was obsessed with his mask.

There could be no other explanation for it. This was the _fourth_ time that she had removed it without his consent.

The first had destroyed the precarious façade of her precious Angel of Music and sent him spiraling further into madness. Her inescapable curiosity had damned them both, and that beautiful boy of hers, were Erik actually compassionate enough to care.

The second had exorcised the dreaded Phantom of the Opera from his beloved haunting ground by betraying him in front of the masses and revealing his monstrous visage. The screams that had echoed through the opera house on that night had condemned them all to share the fiery hell to which _he _had been consigned. His demon had reigned free, burning his kingdom to ashes, and only the kiss of an angel had ended the torment.

The third (had it been just this afternoon?) had crumbled the carefully constructed veneer of Erik Villon, the aloof architect from Milan in possession of a mysterious past. With one kiss, she had reclaimed her power to reduce him to the same broken creature he had been in Paris. The realization that she had so easily unmasked him had left him feeling decidedly unbalanced, more so in the fact that he had never even noticed her do it.

He could not fail to notice now, and he jerked away from their kiss; his hand instinctively flying up to cover his face as he turned from her. A familiar rage bubbled within him at being so exposed before her once again, and a curse hovered unspoken on his lips, halted by Christine's frustrated hiss. "No, Erik! Do not hide from me."

Her right hand unerringly found his wrist, pulling it down as her left cupped his scarred face and forcibly turned him toward her, and he was mildly surprised at her strength. Leveling his darkest gaze on her, he demanded, "My mask, Christine."

"No," she said. "I love _you, _Erik. Not that damned mask!" Her fingers began to lovingly trace the ridges of deformed skin that had condemned him to a wretched existence. She smiled softly. "I want nothing between us when we make love."

Erik closed his eyes in a vain attempt to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. When he opened them again, he saw Christine still standing before him with all her love freely offered for the taking. Could it be? Did he dare dream that she could look upon his face without fear, or pity, or loathing? Would his beauty willingly bed such a damaged beast?

He lifted his tremulous hand to cover hers where it still rested over his cheek. "Oh, Christine," he sighed. "I have never…" he began uncertainly before he amended, "I would not wish for you to have any regrets."

Her dark eyes sparkled with an inner light as she vowed, "My only regret is that we have waited so long for this moment."

She had never looked more beautiful to him...nor more _his_...with her hair wild from the play of his fingers, her face aglow with desire and her smile without artifice. All of his doubt melted away, replaced by the unfamiliar fullness of hope.

He drew her back into his arms; the fire that had threatened to consume them both had become a controlled burn, and Erik was free to savor each new sensation. Too soon, his desire would rage once again, but until that moment, he intended to absorb every nuance of the woman in his arms.

His lack of personal experience in such matters was a cause for some trepidation, but his natural inquisitiveness, and the countless hidden passageways that had snaked through the Opera Populáire, had afforded him certain voyeuristic opportunities to gain a partial education. His mind wandered again to Christine's boldness with him, and he felt the sting of jealousy at the idea that _she_ might have had countless lovers by now. He forcefully pushed away the torturous thought, knowing that to voice it would only drive her away from him.

_Never again. She is __**mine**_ _now._

Her lips upon his cursed face were the only balm he needed.

xXx

Christine could taste the lingering saltiness on Erik's cheek; a mix of sweat and tears that twisted her heart. He had endured so much pain in his life, much of it by her own hand, and she was determined to show him true happiness.

_And pleasure. _

She trembled slightly at the thought, though whether from nervousness or anticipation she could not be certain…perhaps a bit of both. From the moment Erik had requested that she sing, she had been overwhelmed with memories of their past and the inescapable desire that only he could so easily arouse in her. She could have taken the safer course and performed the aria that he had requested (God only knew she remembered every note, praying as she did that Erik was alive and well and, _yes_, thinking of _her_,) but she had spent too many years longing to reclaim that moment when she had been forced to choose between what her mind told her was right and what her soul demanded of her. Her heart had been torn in two.

She could not ignore the chance to be made whole…to make Erik whole. The mask that he insisted upon wearing was proof that he remained in hiding, untrusting and wary of those around him. The offending leather had long ago become more than a means of protection from prying eyes, but was a persona in and of itself; a cold indifferent shield that allowed the man beneath to distance himself from the world, and she suspected _her_ in particular.

There would be no more hiding for either of them. He stood before her now as God had made him; open and vulnerable and so beautiful to her. She dared not speak the words, knowing that Erik would either laugh at her or think her mocking him. He did not see himself as she did. Perhaps he could never be considered handsome, though he was undeniably striking when he wore that godforsaken mask, but neither was he the loathsome gargoyle he believed himself to be. He was a man. Made of flesh and blood and bone.

_And he is mine_, she thought.

The knowledge made her giddy, and she impatiently tugged his mouth to hers. The storm that had been slowly building began to swirl between them once again, gaining power, and Christine welcomed it. She was no longer _la petite ingénue_. Her body may have been pure in the most basic sense, but her thoughts were not. Her soul had craved its completion, and it guided her actions now.

Pulling Erik along with her, she began a slow journey back to her boudoir. He hesitated only a moment before following, or perhaps he was leading her willingly. They paused at the foot of her silk encased bed. The decadent ivory sheets were one of the few indulgences that she allowed herself, and the thought of finally sharing them with Erik made her shudder.

He must have misinterpreted her reaction, for his face clouded with worry and he traced gentle knuckles over her cheek. "Are you certain of this, mon ange?"

She answered him with a kiss, and her clumsy fingers struggled to free the buttons of his brocaded waistcoat. Finally having succeeded in divesting him of the needless garment, (really, he wore more layers than she did!) her hands spread across the expanse of his chest, feeling his muscles bunch beneath her touch. The sensation was thrilling, and, longing for more, she impatiently tugged his shirt tails free of his trousers and unhooked the buttons so that she could learn the texture of his flesh.

Erik failed to stifle a groan as he submitted to her fervent exploration. She slipped her arms further around him as she pressed a kiss to the base of his throat, sliding her hands across his back, only to halt when the pads of her fingers encountered an unexpected roughness. With dawning awareness, she gasped audibly and began to tremble in his arms. He lifted her head to peer deeply into her eyes, and offered a crooked smile as he wiped at an errant tear with his thumb. "Old scars, Christine," he whispered. "They cannot hurt me now."

"Oh Erik," she choked before crushing her mouth to his in a tearful kiss. She had known, of course, that he had been beaten from the tale that Madame Giry had told, but somehow Christine had not expected to encounter the physical proof of such inhumanity. She clung to him desperately, aching at the suffering that he had endured.

_No one will ever hurt him again_, she vowed. _I will not allow it._

The need to give him pleasure was nearly as potent as her own desire, and she found herself pushing at his shirt, eager once again to strip away every barrier between them. She knew by the way his usually deft fingers tore at the bindings of her bodice that his patience was at an end.

The fabric of her dress loosened, and Erik took great satisfaction in letting it slowly fall away to reveal her corset and shift. She felt her skin heat and a blush stain her cheeks at his blatant perusal of her body, though she knew that he had seen her just this way once before, and perhaps even attired in less if he had lingered behind that blasted mirror.

"You are…truly a goddess," he whispered reverently. He lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. Raising his eyes, he smiled wickedly and let his mouth roam up her arm, dropping kisses on her wrist, the inside of her elbow, her shoulder, over the fluttering pulse at the base of her throat and, oh…

_Oh my…_

Conscious thought left her, and Christine surrendered entirely to his sweet seduction.

xXx

She tasted like heaven.

Erik hazily thought that this may well be as close as he could ever hope to come to paradise, and he intended to cherish the experience. The woman his arms was soft and yielding, and caught fire so easily at his touch. She was everything that he had ever dared to imagine.

_So beautiful._

_And still wearing far too many clothes._

He chuckled to himself, greatly amused that his little diva had rendered him half naked before he had ever had the chance to reciprocate. A situation he intended to immediately rectify.

"Turn," he commanded, and had the delight of witnessing her face cloud in frustrated confusion. He smiled again, lifted one hand with index finger pointed down, and made a circling motion, silently instructing that she spin. She did so reluctantly, and he rested his hands on her hips, gently pulling her back against him. She moaned in pleasure, her head lulling to the side. He could hardly refuse the invitation, and placed a kiss to her graceful neck.

He allowed his hands to slowly roam upward, exploring her as she had done with him. Her breathing grew fast and shallow, and she whimpered, "Erik…please…"

Without hesitation, he turned his attention to her corset, cursing under his breath as he struggled to free her from its imprisonment. He could not fathom why women would willingly subject themselves to such torture for the sake of fashion. It was entirely without purpose. Finally, the horrid thing gave way, and he tossed it aside without care.

Christine turned to face him with a nervous smile, and he found it suddenly very difficult to breathe, for her slender body was clearly outlined through the thin shift she wore. She held out a hand to him in invitation, and he took it without thought...as he was fully incapable of thought at that moment.

She sat upon the edge of her bed and urged him down next to her, cupping his face with her free hand to draw him into another kiss. They sank together into a cloud of silk as the final pieces of fabric between them were shamelessly lost in their artless quest to become one. Every pretense fell away in those endless moments when innocence battled need.

Erik gingerly stretched out beside his love, and his once clever fingers grew clumsy as they traveled the contours of her perfect skin, colored pink with the blush of passion. She quivered at his touch, disguising the way his own hands shook with a precarious mixture of desire and insecurity. He, who had so easily mastered every art, was humbled by the beauty before him.

He faltered when Christine shivered beneath him, seeing his own uncertainty reflected in the mirror of her eyes. Then she smiled; her hand caressing his face as she whispered, "Make me yours, Erik." With a shudder, he took what his body demanded, removing the final barrier between them and making her forever his. Her nails bit deeply into his shoulders as she struggled not to cry out, and he gladly welcomed the pain she inflicted, for he knew without a doubt that he had hurt her far worse. Guilt overwhelmed him, dulling the flash of triumph in his discovery that no other had ever know his angel in this way.

They hovered in that moment, neither daring to move, until Christine ever-so-slightly shifted under him, unconsciously deepening their connection, and he hissed, "Christine…"

"It's alright, my love," she promised breathlessly. "The pain is fading."

Erik was in no position to question her assurance, as he was rapidly slipping into oblivion. He clenched his teeth in concentration and silently vowed that he would spend the rest of his life (not to mention the night) making amends to her for his selfish weakness. With a strangled curse, he completely succumbed to his desire.

Never in his miserable life had he experienced such exquisite delight. Christine tenderly held him to her as she whispered words of love and devotion, and he melted into her…content to die in her arms if Fate willed it so. Hands, hearts, and bodies entwined, they trembled together in the aftermath of their union. Their faces were wet with shared tears of joy, and Erik slowly raised a hand to cup her flushed cheek.

"Mon amour," he breathed, when he could again draw breath enough to speak, "I am…forever…your obedient servant."

Her answering smile was radiant, and perhaps, just a touch conceited. "I shall hold you to that," she vowed.

"By all means, my dear," he chuckled.

Shifting his weight away from her, Erik reached for the sheet and covered their bodies before again wrapping Christine in the circle of his arms. He had dreamed so long of this moment…of possessing her as his own…and now he could scarcely believe that it had happened. Yet her head was upon his shoulder, her hand over his heart, and her leg artlessly tangled with his.

He would _never_ let her go.

* * *

**A/N: **I did say the rating was **M**…but I hope I kept it tasteful. 

There will be only one more chapter after this, but never fear, the sequel is nearly complete and it will very soon follow. Think of this story as a big, fluffy prologue.

As always, thank you for reading…thank you for reviewing…and I always welcome your comments.


	11. Of Elysian Peace

**Of Elysian Peace**

As the foggy predawn hours cast a myriad of shadows into the farthest corners of her boudoir, Christine Daaé awoke slowly from the blissful embrace of a beautiful dream. With a sleepy smile curving her lips, she stretched languidly beneath her covers only to encounter a very solid, very warm obstacle curved against her side. Her heart stilled for a moment, then began to race furiously beneath her breast. Uncurling her fingers, she pressed her open palm against said obstacle and felt the soft give of flesh. Her fuzzy eyes snapped open and struggled to focus on her hand, resting artlessly on its perch atop a broad masculine chest. Her gaze slowly traveled up over the rigid angles and smooth contours to settle on the familiar features of her lover.

_Her lover._

The dream lost its hold completely as she looked into the vaguely amused green-blue eyes that had been tenderly watching her awaken. Christine felt a slow, welcoming smile curve her lips as she raked her gaze over Erik's unmasked features. The brilliant glow of morning bathed him in a halo of light, and in that moment, she felt certain that he truly could have been the angel that she had always thought him to be.

_He is __**my**__ angel, _she silently rejoiced.

A flicker of relief danced in his eyes as he murmured, "Good morning, mon ange."

She reached out to stroke his cheek, whispering, "Last night was not a dream." She'd had so very many for so long, and always they would disappear with the morning light. Yet Erik remained solid beneath her touch. "You're still here," she said in awe.

Shadows danced into his eyes, and he frowned. "Would you prefer that I not be?"

"No," she was quick to insist as she took his face between both of her hands and leveled her dark, serious eyes upon his. "Do not ever ask such a thing, Erik."

He half shrugged uncertainly, "I thought that perhaps you might regret your impulsiveness by the light of day."

_Still he doubts me!_

Christine would shake him in frustration if his utter lack of confidence in such intimate matters did not break her heart so. "I have no regrets, my love," she reassured him before pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. His eyes fell closed in pleasure.

_My poor Erik_, she thought, _so starved for affection_. _I pray my love will sustain him._

Pulling back slightly to gaze upon him again, she lazily trailed her fingers across his throat and along his shoulder. The previous night had been a blur of sensation, and she had failed to properly savor him. Erik had experienced no such failing, but had, after his first tentative endeavor, explored her body with the thoroughness that she had come to expect of him. Her stubborn modesty had protested such intimate discoveries, but after being so long denied the joys of the flesh, her angel could not be satisfied with merely a taste. Her own initial discomfort at his possession had soon faded into pleasure.

Now free (well, nearly) from the grip of desire, her curiosity returned in force and her attention was quickly captured by the faint white lines that peeked out over the rise of his shoulder and retreated down to cross his back in angry scores. Whilst they had made love, Christine had pressed her hands over those scars that had remained hidden from her view, but now her heart constricted anew at the visible proof of the brutality delivered upon him by an inhuman race.

Her eyes journeyed down over his chest, and she began to take note of more and more aged wounds that she had failed to see through the haze of her passion. Her hand fell from his shoulder to his side, where she began to outline one jagged slash of raised skin that ran the length from hip to ribs. She was not even aware that she was crying again until she felt Erik's fingers softly brushing at her tears.

Cupping her chin with his hand, he raised her eyes to his and smiled wryly, warning, "You shall go mad attempting to catalogue all of my scars, Christine. They are far too many to count, and not all of them lay upon my flesh."

She knew his words were no exaggeration. How could one man have survived so much abuse? Her hand trembled against his skin as she raggedly whispered, "But this one looks to be…a knife?"

"It is," he confirmed gravely, and Christine choked back a sob while images of her poor angel, gored and fighting for his life, flashed into her mind. "A souvenir from my days in the East…and, no," he added quickly, "I will not tell you any more. Most especially not here in the sanctity of your bed," he smiled softly, "where you have blessed me with the most precious of gifts."

Christine shook her head, forcibly biting back her useless tears. They served no purpose. She offered Erik a sad trembling smile, and confessed, "I have only given you that which has always been yours." She would never again deny him. Her life had been irrevocably linked with his long ago, upon her father's first tale of the Angel of Music, and a blissful sense of peace settled over her with the acceptance of her destiny. "My heart, my body," she whispered, "my soul."

Flames ignited within the glittering depths of his eyes, and she was helplessly drawn into them. His thumb traced her jaw as he worshipped her with his gaze. "Your soul is a beautiful thing, mon ange," he drawled seductively.

"As is yours," she said, and meant it. Beneath the pain and anger and hell of his past, Erik possessed a beauty that transcended the darkness, and she welcomed him as he claimed her lips in adoration. Christine was at a loss to determine whether the salt that she tasted in their kiss was from her tears...or his.

"We have much yet to discuss, my dear," he finally murmured against her cheek. "I find myself suddenly unwilling to leave this fine city."

His words fell over her with resound, sending tentacles of ice racing to smother the warmth in her blood. She had forgotten that he was only in Venice temporarily, and that he had a life in Milan, miles away from her. "Then don't," she demanded imperiously.

Erik sighed, "I am afraid that I must. I have business in Milan." Christine's heart began to twist in misery, and at her worried frown, he soothingly added, "Though if all goes well, I shall be returning in the spring to begin construction of the doge's new villa."

A tiny wing of relief fluttered within her, and she exhaled the breath that she had been holding. "The spring is still so far away, Erik," she pouted, "and I cannot leave the opera now." Nor in the spring, truth be told, at least not permanently. She had a contract to honor and she could not break it. Even if she could, she had no desire to do so…she loved _La Fenice_.

Yet she loved Erik even more, and to be parted from him now was unacceptable.

"I know," he said on a sigh, and then he chuckled, shaking his head at the absurdity of their situation. "What exemplary timing we have, my dear, to have finally found our way back to one another only to face the impossibility of being together."

"It is not impossible, Erik," she rebuked sternly before a mischievous grin appeared. "Only impractical."

He laughed again and pressed a quick kiss to her smiling lips. Sighing again, he reasoned, "And only for a time, I suppose. We are certain to think of some arrangement that will suit our needs"

Her gaze lingered on his tempting mouth, and she leaned forward until she could nearly taste his lips. "And Milan is not so very far from Venice," she agreed, though it seemed a world away at the moment.

"No," he said, and closed the scant distance between them. He feathered kisses down her chin, murmuring between them, "and the railway makes the distance so much easier to traverse."

"Yes," she sighed as his wicked mouth moved along her throat…and lower still! "Oh, yes, Erik."

"Oh, Christine," he echoed with a smile in his voice. "Whatever am I to do with you?"

"Anything you wish, my love," she promised as she surrendered herself to him once again.

She knew that it would never be a fairytale romance, of course. Erik was too volatile, too demanding and too scarred (emotionally) by his past….most of which was still shrouded in mystery. Christine loved him despite all of this, or perhaps because of it. He challenged her and soothed her all at once, and she could not imagine being without him now that Fate had brought them together again. Nor did she fear their undoubtedly stormy future…for she knew that they would always return to one another, like Persephone to Hades.

She had run from darkness, and he had hidden from light.

Yet they both longed for Elysium.

_**Fin

* * *

**_

**A/N: **So there we have it. The end…of the beginning. Please watch for the (very) soon to be released sequel, _Too Long In Winter_, complete with (some) actual plot.

I felt that the story of their rediscovery needed to be broken into two parts so that this one would be a stand alone piece. There will be much more angst and fluff in store for the new lovers…and you are all invited.

Thank you all for sharing this adventure with me.


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